


Echoes

by KokoroJunnayai



Category: Generator Rex
Genre: Amnesia, Confusion, Gen, Identity Issues, Just Friendship, No Romance, Some angst, and familyship, but fluff too, fun stuff, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-30 10:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 35,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3933355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KokoroJunnayai/pseuds/KokoroJunnayai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing he knows is pain. It's a terrible first thing to know, and he learns it immediately, and so, so intimately. Muscles are bunched and tight beneath his skin, and a simple shifting tells him they are bruised. Everything hurts. Everything feels battered. </p><p>The first thing he comprehends in this life isn't a gentle touch or a peaceful quiet. It's a horrifying, scraping, and clawing agony, and it only gets worse as he wakes up.</p><p> </p><p>Or, Rex has amnesia again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rebirth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions/flashbacks to torture. Also, this is unbeta'd.

The first thing he knows is pain. It's a terrible first thing to know, and he learns it _immediately_ , and so, so intimately.

Muscles are bunched and tight beneath his skin, and a simple shifting tells him they are bruised. Everything hurts. Everything feels battered. His arm feels broken, actually – but that's definitely worse than bruised.

The first thing he comprehends isn't a gentle touch or a peaceful quiet, or even the simplicity of a bed underneath his injured body.

No, it's horrifying, deep, scraping and grinding and _clawing agony_ , and it only gets worse as he wakes up.

He screams in pain. The action makes him choke and swing quickly into a sitting position, coughing and clutching a sore, squeezed chest. His lungs feel like they're on fire – and every breath is a small gasp escaping a secure prison.

Now he can't scream if he wanted to, which, he's still not sure he _doesn't_ want to, but manages a low, tormented moan.

The next few minutes are a battle for oxygen, fought desperately. The world swirls and blackens around him. When he finally wins, he winces, remembering his twinging arm (the right one), and his other battered limbs.

"Okay." He whispers, unable to speak louder. The noise makes him jerk up.

Blinking, breathing heavily, he tries again.

"O...kay?"

It's a low croak, alien and strange, and it feels like nails scraping the back of his throat. He wonders if he had been screaming before, while he was asleep.

He tastes blood and decides that yes, he must have been. For hours. Why...how...what is...He struggles even to put the questions together in his fractured brain.

But searching reveals there is one, clear memory in there, of more of that unbearable pain and it hovers as a dark, terrifying cloud in his mind. He dares not think about anything besides the present.

It's not hard – there's plenty of hurt to focus on right now.

Fire dances along his entire right side, bruises tingling and burning enough to make him shut his eyes and have to breath for a moment.

When he can, he peeks at his arm again, tries not to vomit at the blood. Paired with innumerable scratches and gaping holes, he can see far too much beneath a barely-there jacket. There are way too many colors there – bright red, sickly yellow, and deep, ugly purples – and he almost can't spot the bronze of his skin beneath them all.

Very, _very bad_ doesn't even _begin_ to cover it.

"M-maybe I could j-just take this..." He whispers to himself, left hand tugging at his left sleeve. "Get...jacket..off..and.."

His voice sounds like something hoarse and dying, but he knows if he listens to the silence much longer, he will freak out. He will start shouting and screaming and sobbing, pleading with _anyone_ to come get him, wondering why he's _here, why him of all people_ –

Darkness, deep and hungry, roars in his face. He can't see, can't tell where he is but he knows he _hates_ it.

A cold, soft voice croons in his ear and something metallic sinks into his flesh.

" _You are mine now, boy_."

And there is so much hurt, so much icy agony that it makes him want to scream. He doesn't want this, doesn't want to be here, _he wants to go home –_

He struggles and claws and _forces_ his way from the half-memory, desperate to feel the hard ground beneath him. Desperate to feel even the pain, if it keeps him from the monster inside his head. It's not real, it can't be real.

"I-I'm okay." He almost sobs. "I'm _here_. I-I'm here...I'm here...I'm here..."

Somehow the crazy mantra is just making things much worse. Maybe it's because he doesn't even know where 'here' _is_. But the owner of the voice isn't here, right? That's something? It's gonna be something...Oh, man...

Logic offers a sharp slap to his terror. None of that is going to help right now, it scolds him. He needs to work on getting out of here.

It's correct, he thinks as he sucks in a shuddering breath.

He promises himself that if he survives the next couple hours, he can panic then.

Surprisingly enough, that promise gives him strength – it feels like a reassurance that he _will_ survive. That he _won't_ be dragged into whatever hellish nightmare resides in his mind.

Ignoring the ache in his chest, he takes a second to breath. Calm down...

Okay.

First order of business is to do something about his arm. Blood loss is a bad thing, right? Plus, it's something he thinks he can fix right now. Sorta. That's something.

Perhaps if he can remove his red jacket (too red, darkened in places with stains of his blood) he can wrap it around his still bleeding limb. Then he wouldn't lose so much blood, and he wouldn't pass out or die or something. It sounds like an awesome plan.

He goes for it and winces, his arm struggling to free itself. This plan was completely contingent on being able to remove the jacket, wasn't it?

"Damn it...s-stupid...get...off..."

Okay, so at this point he'd settle for getting half of it off. The less-tattered half, preferably.

Finally, after moving his shoulder one too many times and having to close his eyes again and hold down a scream, his left side is free from the jacket.

Giddy joy or agony, or both, steals his breath, and he lets a trembling smile bloom on his exhausted face.

 _I_ did _something..._ He taunts the chasm of darkness in his head, too exhausted to speak the words aloud.

Just for that, he allows himself to rest for a moment. He only half-closes his eyes though, wanting to know that the real world is always close by.

Eventually he realizes that he's done essentially nothing after all, and decides to blame his slowness – and current dizziness – on the blood loss.

He groans and picks up one sleeve of the jacket.

It takes a very long time to curl the stiff fabric around his broken arm. His left side is only marginally better off than his right, and he has to keep stopping to blink spots from his vision and to tell himself not to throw up. That would be gross. And unhelpful.

"You..can...do..this..." He gasps, ignoring the tears streaming down his cheeks. "S'not...so bad..."

Minutes, probably hours later, he has the world's ugliest, most stupid-looking bandage on his broken limb, and he clutches it gently, protectively to his chest. There's a small sense of pride at his accomplishment, if it can be called that, and maybe, just maybe, he allows himself a little smirk.

He wouldn't want to, but he could totally be a medic...person. Dude. Er, doctor. Yeah, he could be a doctor with a fancy lab coat and cool chart, always poking and prodding at people who only wanted to say hi, just like – um...Just like...

Just like who, exactly? He can't picture anything but a generic doctor – a stranger in white with blurred features and a chart. That's hardly anyone special.

Shaking his head at that particular non sequitur (blood loss again, probably), he wriggles to his knees and slowly, painfully stands to his feet.

The earth spins beneath him for a moment, but he blinks, and suddenly he can see. He can _see_!

He can see...well actually, he can't see very much. Nothing bright or shiny had caught his attention while he played doctor on himself, and nothing particularly interesting captures it now.

Dusk shades his surroundings in dim greys and vague shadows. There's tough dirt beneath his feet – er, roughed up boots – and in the fading light, he can make out a reddish tint in it.

The small, spiky dark shapes, he finally decides, are some kind of shrubbery, and they are settled every few feet farther than he can see.

It takes a moment for him to realize what's wrong with the scene. There's fear tightening in his crushed rib-cage, and his mind blanks on the reason for what feels like forever.

He has no idea where he is.

He has no idea where _civilization_ is.

Suddenly his injured arm goes numb, his mouth opens and closes soundlessly, and he spins around anxiously, looking for something, _anything_. There had to be something, didn't there?

Some town or building or shed. Some group, some person, maybe with a cowboy hat on and a star-shaped badge pinned to his chest – he doesn't care right now, it could be the friggin' _Pope_ , he just doesn't want to be _alone_ anymore.

"Don't freak out. Don't freak out.." He repeats in vain. "I-it's okay..don't..."

Bile and sheer terror mix for an acrid taste on his tongue, and he begins to run despite his wounds.

This is the panic he promised himself. This is the nightmare that he can't wake up from.

So he runs, flees like he can outrun reality.

Maybe he's hurting himself more, maybe he's supposed to be in great pain – but all he feels is the hard pounding beneath his feet, the gasps in his throat, and an invisible hand squeezing his heart to near-bursting.

He's in the desert. He's _alone_ in the desert, in some place far from civilization and water and food, and he can't remember how he got there.

Has he been kidnapped? Drugged? Beaten up and left someplace remote to die? Each scenario fuels his rapidly increasing paranoia and makes his legs pump faster.

Why is he here and why is he _alone_? Why is he so hurt? Why is this real? 

There's no answer to his frantic questions but the thudding of his boots against the cool ground and the ragged gulps of air as tears of terror slid down his face.

He almost misses his painful dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So this is one of my stories re-written. It's also known as 'Expectations' on ff.net. 
> 
> Sorry if it's kinda confusing at first, hopefully the next few chapters will make this make some more sense. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please comment!


	2. Adrift

It's when his throat goes dusty and dry and his stomach curls in on itself that he discovers the nanites.

He's plodding along, the sun beating down on him and on his only company, the shrubs, and he's really wishing he hadn't thrown up hours ago, after running for what felt like days.

He feels empty and achy, like a strong breeze could blow him over.

The most a human can go without water is about three days, he pulls from somewhere (is it even true, he wonders), but he knows in his state that he won't last another night.

Something tells him he _can_ get out of this place, he _can_ survive another day, but he can't figure out how. It seems like the same something that suggested he stop the bleeding, as though he has an adviser or perhaps just common sense that likes to pop out only every few freak-outs or so.

Honestly, he'd rather have memories of why he's here, why he's in pain, than have common sense. The latter certainly hasn't saved him yet; maybe the former would do a better job.

He's frustrated, hungry, thirsty, and in so much pain he has to continuously talk himself out of simply sitting down and closing his eyes. That would be death for him, he knows, suppressing a shiver at his morbid musings.

And that's when the weird stuff starts happening.

Stumbling along, trying not to stop, he thinks about how much he wishes he had a vehicle. Walking is boring and agonizing in his state – and more importantly, way too slow.

He wonders if he had like, a golf cart, or a motorcycle, or a big fancy car...with a/c, and a radio...and food and water preferably.

The more he imagines such a vehicle, the more miserable he gets. Perhaps if he had one, he wouldn't have to die out here in this desert, ignorant of the reason he's been brought here.

Yeah. So that's about when the nanites kicked in (though he doesn't know that's what they're called).

Suddenly his feet feel funny and there's a loud whirring noise. There's this slight ticklish sensation and then orange and black metal things are sprouting from the lower half of his body.

He shouts in surprise. Okay, so maybe he screams, high-pitched, like a little girl. No one else is around to say different.

"What the –" Suddenly he's _sitting_ on something. Shimmering silver handles gleam innocently a foot from his hands.

He has no memory of getting on a motorcycle, but it appears one popped out of nowhere. Or, possibly, came from his feet.

If the latter theory is impossibly correct – when hallucination is a more probable answer, he can't really tell at this point – then he has some sort of powers, and that's _awesome_!

If not, then...he's crazy and going to die.

Either way, he's pretty darn excited about this motorcycle that just appeared in front of him. If he had to choose between stumbling in the desert or riding around endlessly on a (maybe pretend) motorcycle, he thinks that dying on a motorcycle is a _much_ cooler way to go.

He's excited, that is, until he reaches for the handlebars and winces. He remembers that his right arm is broken and his right hand, not so mobile.

"Um...okay...Motorcycle just appears. Weird, but helpful. Now if a non-busted arm could appear so I can steer, that'd be awesome." He mutters to himself. If he ever does find civilization, he'll need to kill this new habit of talking out loud to himself.

Finally he decides to try to hold on with his left hand and curl said injured limb against his stomach. It's rough going, but he figures no one else is out there anyway, so he won't run over anyone. Silver linings, right?

He revs the engine like he knows what he's doing, and suddenly he's off.

Tiny bushes become blurred green dots. The sun still simmers above him, yet the wind from his ride cools him, ruffles his hair.

Despite the pain, he manages a grin and a holler.

"This is _awesome!_ " He screams into the wind. It doesn't even occur to him that someone might hear – he's so alone out here it hardly matters.

It's only after a bug splats on his face that he realizes he has goggles just _sitting_ on his head, and he tugs them down. He almost crashes, driving no-handed, but he thinks he sees a road in the distance.

He's going to live after all. Hope explodes in his chest, tingles in his limbs, and makes his stomach flip with joy.

His throat is still raw and painful, his arm still hurts, and he can't recall why he's here – yet he throws back his head and laughs and laughs without a care in the world.

"I'm gonna make it! _Woohoo_!"

* * *

She doesn't want to cry, but she thinks she will. There's a thick lump in her throat and a crushed feeling in her heart, and she can feel the familiar shameful burning behind her eyes.

She chances a glance across the med-bay to look at a man clad in a green suit.

It's not as though Six will mock her, she muses. The most he would do is raise a dark eyebrow or turn his hardened face away.

That... _fact_ , surprisingly hurts.

Doctor Holiday pushes the too-truthful thought away, choosing instead to wallow in her other pain. She wishes she was still angry.

Because when she learned that Rex was missing, she didn't break down and sob as she wants to now. Her green eyes narrowed, her face went tight and ridged, and righteous fury slowly filled her chest. When those words, that Rex had been kidnapped, met her ears, she could feel the anger, the desperation, and the ruthlessness sink in.

Holiday doesn't like to be cruel, not in a world already chock-full of brutality. At the same time, she tries not to care, either, because caring will always hurt eventually, she _knows_ that, but it's impossible to find a middle-ground. She's a doctor and an older sister; she's been caring way too long to know how to stop.

Yet it's that same care ( _love, Rebecca, it's called love_ ) that hardened her heart and strengthened her resolve – that whoever dared to mess with Rex would _pay._ She's smart, has resources, and is very determined. Surely she could find her boy.

Grief bites her deep right now, and some despicable, logical part of her wishes she didn't care about Rex.

Wishes the overwhelming anger still distracted her from this awful, consuming despair.

Three weeks. _Three weeks._

That's how long it's been since she last saw him, last spoke with him.

A whole month he's been in someone's clutches ( _Van Kleiss, you know it has to be him_ ), a whole month has gone by and she's as ignorant as she was the night he was taken.

She opens her mouth to say something comforting, whether to herself or Six's turned back, she doesn't know, but that only makes her dry throat worse. Tears threaten to fall right then and there.

The computer screen she faces blurs, and all she can think is, _Not again. I can't do this again._

"Rebecca."

She jumps at her first name – Rex never calls ( _called_ ) her that, Beverly...can't, anymore, and Six uses it sparingly. Too sparingly.

Yet he uses it now, with _tenderness –_ something she knows he's barely capable of.

A calloused hand settles on her shoulder and against her will some of her pain collapses to...not happiness, exactly. Peace, maybe?

"We _will_ find him." Six tells her, voice rumbling.

She closes her eyes against the words he's not saying; _we'll find him...dead or alive._ They are the truth when all she wants right now are lies.

Truthfully?

She doesn't think she can take losing another piece of her family. It's too small as it is.

Eyes still closed, a tear runs down her face, and she reaches up to squeeze the hand on her shoulder.

"Yes. We will." She whispers. Her hope dwindles in the moment, but her determination strengthens.

Neither one knows that they will find him, of course, but they are both promising to spend eternity _trying_ – and Holiday thinks that she could love Six just for that. For trying _with_ her.

She doesn't tell him she's glad he is here, though, doesn't spell out the feelings they both know are there, and definitely doesn't stand up from her chair and fling herself into his arms. It isn't the time for romance or coddling.

Maybe what they have is mutual, maybe its deep and a little scary and not quite what either were looking for when they found it. Maybe it's...

Well, it's something.

But right now, there is only one thought in their heads – only one person Holiday longs to embrace.

And as she lets another tear slip from her eye, she wonders if she'll ever see Rex again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The motorcycle crumbled into tiny, disturbing metal parts a mile back. He's too tired to figure out why it won't come back. Too worn out.

The earlier joy has faded now that his boots scuff the cracking asphalt he'd glimpsed so far away. It's like a cruel joke, he thinks. There's no one for miles on this road, barely even a tumble weed passing by (let alone a car).

There is no hope on this dusty, unused path and he wonders bitterly why he thought there would be.

When he gets tired of clutching his rapidly swelling limb to his chest, he does his best to rip pieces of cloth from his shirt (it's filthy anyway – covered in dust and mud and crusty blood) and tie together a crude sling. It's hard with only one working hand and a desert-dry mouth, but he manages.

The pathetic thing makes him feel better, if only mentally, and exhausted but slightly cheered he trudges onwards.

Each step feels like walking in deep sand. It's hot and difficult and he doesn't seem to be getting anywhere.

Maybe soon he'll reach the end of the road and it will just turn out to be a dead end with a giant sign saying, 'Fooled ya!' on it. With how his luck is going, he wouldn't be terribly shocked.

He hates it, but something in him (inner pessimist, probably) is dead-certain that he will die here after all – ironically, on the road he'd thought could save him. Maybe it's just his common sense finally kicking in again.

Yet to his surprise, he realizes he's a very stubborn person; he keeps stumbling forwards. His inner pessimist cannot seem to completely kill his faintly beating hope.

He feels dizzy, his tongue is fuzzy and swollen (there isn't even any spit in his mouth to murmur comfortingly to himself), and every third step is a half-trip, making him cry out in pain as it jostles his arm.

He _will_ die out here, that he knows horribly well. There isn't a living thing for miles – not even a bird or a lizard. There isn't any food or water, aside from the constant mirages that taunt him only to fade as he gets close.

 

Honestly, he would be crying right now, but he doesn't think there's enough moisture left in him.

 

He doesn't even know why he's here. He doesn't know why he's alone and hurt. He doesn't know _anything._

And he's going to die.

Yet he continues to prolong the agony by struggling through step after step, continues to pretend he _might_ make it after all.

A shell-shocked little voice in the back of his head mutters, _This is so not a great day to be me,_ and he wishes he had energy to laugh.

That's when his legs begin to quiver and he folds to his knees, gasping and wheezing as the world whirls around him.

This is reality crashing down on him, he thinks. This is it.

Every part of him trembles as though an earthquake is shooting violently through his body, and the sensation shakes him to the core.

He can't even see now – it's darkening and spots are taking over his vision. He feels the uncomfortably hot road meet his cheek and sear into his face, the rough texture rubbing on his new sunburns.

There's enough energy in him to _try_ and protect his arm as he collapses to the ground, but no more.

Shock or panic or dehydration (probably all) has set in, finally, for good.

This is it. This is _it_.

All he wants to do is curl up and sob and cry that he _doesn't deserve_ this! He deserves to be somewhere quiet and soft, with lots of green grass and shady trees and cool lakes.

What has he ever done to earn such a cruel, lonely death? He can't have been a murder or villain in a past life – he thinks he'd feel that somehow. So why is he suffering such bad karma?

Why has Destiny picked such a cruel, ignorant end for _him_?

As he desperately attempts to breath regularly, he closes his eyes, against all protests of his survival instincts.

Frustration and anger take too much out of him, and he can't stand his reality anymore anyways.

Rage slips from him, just like consciousness (and life) is slipping gently from his grasp.

He imagines where he'd like to be right now – thinks of cool beaches and snowy paradises and an air conditioned house where he is loved and cared for.

Tries to picture his family, gathered around him, worried and loving, but can't.

His breath comes slower and feels heavier in his lungs.

Instead he tries to remember the taste of cold soda on his tongue, or the smell of pizza, or the feel of a hug.

Huh. His arm doesn't hurt anymore. That's probably good, he thinks deliriously.

But he can't remember the smell of anything but dry dust or feel anything but fiery hell crackling around him. There is no comfort to be found here.

Finally, finally, a few tears escape his closed lids and slide sluggishly down his sunburned, dirty face.

 

This is just..not fair. This is wrong.

 

Sleep, like a kind mother beginning a lullaby, starts to whisper softly to him. Distantly, he knows sleeping here will mean death – but he's so, so _tired_. And unconsciousness is promising fantasies and a reality much better than this one. _Anything_ is better than this one.

His dust-covered lips twitch in the echo of a smile. Sleep it is then.

As he drifts off, a picture comes unbidden to his mind. Well, not a picture at all really – more like a...a feeling.

A feeling (or is it a memory?) of two people – both faces completely blurred out, because that's not the important part – standing by him. A sensation of love and protection emanates from them, surrounds them just like their imaginary arms surround him. A hot sigh crawls past his lips and he can't help but think they aren't protecting him now.

He wonders if he thought the pair up. He wonders if that was a memory. He thinks that maybe, either way, they could be his parents. They could love him.

It's his last thought before oblivion claims him, and since it's a good one, he surrenders willingly to the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Slight Holix in this chapter, hope no one minds. Also, heads up, there won't be any Rex parings in this fic, only friendships and familyships. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please comment!


	3. Falling

He's been sucked inside of nothing. There's a blank, dark, endless canvas surrounding him, trapping him in a giant void.

This must be what it's like to suffocate, he thinks. Wait, no – this must be what it's like to go to space.

Except space has little comforting lights (stars), reassuring you that there is something out there besides you. Here...here, not so much.

He sits there, curled tight into a ball with hands around his legs and head on his knees. There is endless nothing before him, which is bad enough, but behind him...

Behind him is pure darkness, its jaws open and eyes glowing red.

His back is to _something_ and he wants to look, he _needs_ to look to see what it is, but he can't seem to make his neck turn.

Soft, threatening growls sound from that darkness. They could be real, they could be not. They _sound_ real. They send shivers down his spine and make his breaths come in loud, conspicuous gasps.

There is something _out there_...but it hasn't eaten him yet.

Some part of him believes that if he faces it, if he turns around and sees it pacing and grinning at the exposed, juicy prey that is his curled form, it will devour him.

It could kill him now. But it doesn't, and he shivers and tries not to move for fear that it will.

Desperately, he studies what's before him – the empty canvas. It's both a relief and a different sort of terror, as he can clearly _see_ that there are no monsters lurking there, but neither can he view anything else.

It's so _blank_ , like a thousand white pages waiting to be written on. Only he doesn't have a pen or pencil, only he thinks that the blankness is _inside_ _him_ and that's all he has, that's what he _is._ The endlessness before him feels like an empty fun-house mirror.

He has no reflection; he is but a ghost. It's a lonely sort of horror, an anxious fear, that of being forgotten and abandoned. Maybe it's like what it feels to be left stranded in space.

And it _hurts_. _  
_

So he switches between tensing and sobbing silently at what is maybe (probably, _definitely_ ) behind him, and staring in absolute, numb panic at what lies in front.

He wonders if this is hell. He wonders what he did to deserve it.

Tears pour all the harder and he thinks he hears the monster laughing in its own way, enjoying his pain and misery.

He thinks that he'd like to die now.

Surely it would be better than this. Then again, he realizes with a sinking feeling, maybe he's already dead. Maybe that's why everything felt like it was burning earlier...

Suddenly the beast goes deadly quiet. Suddenly the bare space before him is turning a distinct, powerful gray and his curled form is tipping over. There's gravity again, and he's falling, falling down, down into the dark canvas...

Wind flies past his ears and a soundless scream escapes his lips. He's crashing to earth with no ship, no space suit, and he's sure to collide into _something_.

He can only hope his monster does not follow.

Awareness drifts into him, or maybe him into it, as waves. First he feels a thin material, scratchy and still, underneath his limbs. He shifts and he feels it – at the very least, it's warm, and it's loose against his raw, vibrating skin.

Next comes sound in the way of voices – loud, soft, worried and angry, they all float around him. In and out. They're important, he thinks vaguely, and then loses the thought amongst the sea of the others.

He breathes in air deeply. It stretches his lungs and leaves a satisfied sensation in his chest – it motivates him to turn his head. Now his awareness extends, and he realizes he's been sleeping, that he's only just waking up. It's with that thought that he blinks open his eyes.

 

"What..." He croaks.

 

He's in a hospital. Well...it looks _kinda_ like a hospital. Actually it looks like a private suite in some super hospital, because while he does appear to be in a hospital bed, he isn't resting in a patient's room.

Rather, in the large, spacious room with the lab equipment, CAT machines, EEG machines, and several doctor conferring over results not ten feet away, this is not just _any_ place of healing. There may even be soldiers in the corner.

He thinks he's dreaming for a few minutes. Blinking blearily as the heart rate monitor increases, he tries to shush it – "Shush, stupid beeping machine." – but it doesn't catch anyone's attention.

What's with this odd hospital? Maybe he's in some special ward, diagnosed with some ultra rare disease that he doesn't remember contracting, or something. Maybe he's dying.

Or, you know, maybe he's a lab rat in some weird, mad scientist's experiment. Whichever.

Trying to think, he struggles to conjure any reason ( _besides_ the dying/lab rat theories) for a visit to such an unorthodox place.

Slowly, images flow back into his mind of red, caked dirt and cracked lips and a broken arm. He remembers that. He remembers being alone in a desert and not knowing why.

A shiver runs down his spine.

 

 

He also recalls pain and blisters and almost dying, and surely anyplace that looks like a hospital is better than that.

Shifting, he realizes he certainly feels more normal, more like a person again. Taking inventory, he spies a white cast encircling his arm, poking out from a gentle blue sling that goes around his neck.

Also his stomach doesn't feel so empty, nor his mouth so dry – glancing down further, he notes an IV sticking out of his good arm. The sight of a needle in him, having been put there without his consent or notice, makes him a little uncomfortable.

Still better than being dead, he has to admit. _Anything_ is better than being dead.

With a small groan at moving his aching body the wrong way, he flops his head back on the pillow. Okay. So?

He furrows his brow trying to get his sleep-addled brain to work, to think, to take in the scene before him.

Where, exactly, is he now? And who brought him here?

Who saved him?

Unbidden, the feeling/memory of two blurry people fussing over him pops up, but he shoves that aside.

 _That was just a dream. A fantasy. A hallucination, probably, considering the blood loss, starvation, and lack of water_. He insists to himself, dousing a strange, hurting hope sparking inside.

 _Maybe a car finally came by and saw me and picked me up._ Volunteers a helpful voice from the back of his mind. _And this is the nearest hospital._

He starts to wonder if he doesn't actually know what hospitals look like, or maybe hasn't been in one in a long time. Perhaps they don't get much business and are treating him extra good, he theorizes, or he was in such critical condition they had to move him to this strange room.

His whole face scrunches up in deep thought, _Does that really make sense_? – but that's too painful, the sunburns are still there and they hurt.

When was the last time he'd been inside one of these? Actually, what was the last thing he remembered before the desert? Before everything...

He reaches, stretches his memory back until it's bent over backwards and his head begins to pound. He tries to picture _anything_ , anyplace, any name or face.

He summons up every bit of concentration and he tries as hard as he can.

 _Remember_...

 

Suddenly there's the darkness again, pure and engulfing and lined with pain. It's emptiness, the nothing roaring at him and it threatens to devour his soul.

He hadn't hurt before, but now everything is cut to ribbons and flesh is sliced to the bone, and blood is spurting everywhere and he can't, he can't, he's going to _die,_ oh _God_ , please, this is agony, please just _stop_...

_"Now, now, we can't stop yet. You're barely even bleeding."  
_

And then there's that laugh, that cruel, cold laugh, so soft in his ears as he screams.

No, _please_ , no...

 

 

 

Sheets. His fist in clenched in the thin, scratchy sheets. He can _feel_ that. Near-sobbing, he uses that sensation to pull himself out of the pit of his mind. It feels like scrabbling with bleeding hands up the side of a cliff.

It works, though. He's gasping but he can see the hospital bed again, and takes in the sight of gray walls eagerly.

"Okay, okay." He mutters to himself, like he's establishing a verbal foothold in reality. "No remembering."

He doesn't _want_ to remember, not if that horror is all there is.

There's pain enough in the now, right?

Blinking back tears at his messed up life (or is this normal? This can't be how regular people live), he decides he needs some answers. He needs to think of _something_ other then the parts of his mind he can't touch without getting burned. He needs to know there's something that isn't pain or a malicious, laughing voice.

Only one way to find out.

"H-hello?" He calls out tentatively. The figures on the opposite side of the room don't glance up.

 _Maybe I'm a ghost_. His inappropriately-timed sense of humor suggests. A shudder runs through him. No. No, he is _alive_. He _has_ to be.

"Come on." He whispers. It's a good enough pep-talk and his heart-rate calms.

Neither of his arms are up for waving, so he tries again, louder.

"Hey, doctor!"

This time one figure jerks up in surprise, nearly dropping his clipboard. He catches a glimpse of the doctor's face – dark and scowling and wrinkled from frowning too much – and begins to regret catching the man's attention.

The male doctor shoos a co-worker or possibly minion away with a few muttered words and a dismissive gesture.

A feeling of dread pooled in his stomach.

"So. You're finally awake." The doctor says as he walks over, like he's disappointed it took him so long.

"Um..yeah. Where am I, exactly?"

The doctor stops by his bedside so he can loom threateningly over him – this stranger comes so close, he tenses under his bandages and sheets. For some reason he can't breath properly in proximity to another human.

The stranger is so near he can't help but take in the wrinkled white coat, the name and M.D. embossed on the pocket of it, and the sweater vest and ugly pants underneath it.

"You're in a safe facility. A base we call _Serendipity_." The unhappy man – _John,_ he reads now in loopy blue thread – rumbles. "You're just lucky Providence picked up the call about a road-tripper finding an unconscious boy on the side of the road."

It sounds like the doctor wants personal thanks for the event. Disdain should be curling in his stomach for someone he's only just met – but his brain is too busy trying to catch up.

For a second he wonders if he has brain damage for not knowing these things. Then he wonders if the man has simply made a mistake, that maybe he is the wrong patient being told these things.

"Wait, hold on – what's Providence? What do you mean, 'safe facility'?"

Why is this stranger talking like he should understand any of this? Why isn't he reassuring him that this is a hospital, he's safe, and that he doesn't have brain damage? Why isn't he asking him regular doctor-y questions? (What even _are_ normal doctor questions?)

There's the taste of fear in his mouth, the sour beginnings of panic hard to swallow back down.

He starts to think his turned-into-a-lab-rat theory isn't so crazy after all. Why anyone would _want_ to experiment on him, his still sleepy-mind has no answer for, but then again, why would someone want to dump him in the desert?

There are no answers in his dark, hollow head, only the faintest echos of terror and pain and he's pretty sure that's just from his time in the desert. And well..he dares not go farther than that. He dares not prod the monster skulking just below the surface.

He blinks, tries to squeeze himself back into reality and away from such thoughts.

If possible, the doctor's large frown deepens above him.

"I need to ask you some questions." Doctor _John_ says, ignoring his queries. "There might be some unseen damage to your head."

Well great, 'cause that just totally confirmed his worst fear right there. Lovely.

He can hear his heart pounding in his ears and feel a distracting tingling in his injured arm. Against his will, frantic words bubble up against his lips, all struggling to be first and only succeeding in getting jumbled together.

"I don't get– what do you mean, _damage_? What...I don't...like..I could have _brain damage_?"

"Just answer the questions." Doctor John is so unruffled by his anxiety he thinks maybe he's just overreacting.

It's calming, in a weird, patronizing manner.

 

He breathes out.

 

"What is your name?"

It's such a simple question. He hasn't wondered it once while cautiously dipping into (and desperately throwing himself out of) his shallow pool of memories, hadn't pondered it running in the desert – it had seemed like the most obvious thing on the planet. Still does, actually.

Who doesn't know their own name?

Indeed, he furrows his brow and finds it sitting on the tip of his tongue like it had always been there.

Something tells him he _didn't_ know his name, that he _shouldn't_ , but it isn't hard to learn at all.

"Rex." He says. It slips from his mouth as though it is the most natural sound he's ever produced, as though it's old and familiar and comfortable.

But he doesn't remember ever saying it before _._

"Rex." He repeats, fear creeping into his tone. "I'm Rex."

"Good. I'm Doctor John, Rex. I want you to know that you are safe here." Though the scowl doesn't shift, he sounds like he's rewarding his favorite dog for getting a trick right. It's vaguely irritating.

"Can you tell me how old you are, Rex?"

Rex nods and opens his mouth again – but the answer doesn't appear for this one. He wracks his brain knowing this isn't right, knowing he hadn't had to search for his name for even a second, but looks and concentrates all the same.

He is careful, though, not to pry too deeply into the dark – he's wary of getting lost again.

But it doesn't matter anyway. He finds nothing. Not a date, not a number, not a single clue for his age. Maybe he's fifteen? No, seventeen? Is this what seventeen feels like?

His mouth opens and closes, and he glares intently at the white sheets covering his feet.

"Can we skip that one, doc?" He hears himself say weakly, as though from far away. What is wrong with him? Why can't he remember anything? Anything besides pain and...that voice, that is.

"Alright." Is the more brittle, gruff voice breaking through his thoughts, and it's the nicest thing he's heard from the doctor yet.

"Do you know where you are?

Rex wants to grin triumphantly but he also wants to cry at this whole overwhelming situation, and eventually settles for neither.

"A hospital? A 'safe facility'?"

This seems to disappoint the man.

"...Do you remember what Providence is, Rex?"

 

He feels like he's getting every question wrong on a test and it's frustrating – he just wants someone to spell it out for him.

"No, I _don't_ know what Providence is! Is that where I am? Have..." How do you ask someone if you've gone completely crazy? How do you not run away in terror when they try to answer?

Or, how do you ask if government agencies or other weird people-group that call themselves 'Providence' and seem to have safe facilities are normal, and you just forgot?

This is pretty much the strangest situation he's ever been in, he thinks.

"Where am I? _Exactly_?"

His arm is starting to throb painfully – funnily enough, it seems to throb in time to his loud heartbeat – and he glares at the doctor as though he can stare answers out of him.

This looming doctor pushes his thick glasses further up his pointed nose and sighs, rolling his eyes exasperatedly.

"I was _not_ trained for this." John mutters. "Okay, listen – this is one of many Providence bases, specifically the medical bay. You are perfectly safe here."

He hates that that line is repeated so much.

"And Providence is..."

'"A militant organization created to deal with EVOs."

"EVOs?" He tastes the word, rolls it around in his mouth and squints. It sounds vaguely familiar. Not like his name – more like something he _should_ know, like who the fifth president was.

Oh, crap. Who was the fifth president? He wants to say a James...Definitely a James or a John.

"Yes, _EVOs_." The impatient tone breaks into his musing.

Which he hates, since he's still digesting 'militant' and still wondering why he's been brought _here_ of all places.

Nothing is making sense. John isn't really being helpful either.

"It's also the company you work for." John adds, as though hearing his thoughts.

Rex's head jerks up. He completely ignores the pain in his arm to gape, open mouthed and twitch on his bed.

"I think I would remember that." He whispers, but he isn't sure. His mind spirals, struggles in vain to wrap itself around his new reality.

If he has a job he has to be at least sixteen, right? Maybe he's even eighteen or twenty. That thought scares him and he can't quite put his finger on why.

He certainly doesn't _feel_ old. But if he is, that means that there are years, many, many _years_ of memories that should be tucked away in his brain – and there's not. There is only desert and pain and a monster of darkness that echoes of fire and a cruel laugh.

There is nothing good in him, nothing at all, and he thinks there ought to be.

 

...Right?

This isn't normal...is it?!

 

Another sigh breaks into his panic.

"Look, from what I can tell you seem to have a form of retrograde amnesia, probably psychological due to your trauma. I can't tell the extent of it yet, but from your medical history I suspect nearly all of your episodic memories will be inaccessible at this time.

"The short version? You wouldn't remember your own middle name, much less the place where you work."

Breathing is hard, tears are blinked back from his eyes, and big words bounce around his hollow head.

 _Retrograde...trauma...amnesia...wouldn't remember his middle name_?

Is this guy saying what Rex _thinks_ he's saying?

"W-what?" He stammers out.

"Really, this is getting ridiculous." It's whispered, so Rex probably isn't supposed to hear it – but he does and it hurts and he's not sure why. He doesn't even _like_ this John guy.

"Hold on. I'll be right back, I have to make a call. Um...Just remember that you're safe here. This is a safe environment." The man then turns to leave, so abruptly that his shoes squeak on the floor.

"W-wait! I have more questions! Don't...go..away..."

Doctor John has already disappeared through the pair of large, gray doors in the back of the room.

Rex slumps against his bed and stares, unseeing, at the wall.

Nothing makes sense right now. It feels like he woke up in a bizarro world where everything is backwards and Tuesdays are Saturdays and everyone is against him. This feels completely _crazy_!

But perhaps the world is perfectly fine. Perhaps it's he who is strange and different and all kinds of backwards – but then, how is he supposed to tell?

Finally, despite biting his lip, tears break free and pour down his face.

"I wanna go home." He cries to himself. Which probably isn't proper behavior for a eighteen-to-twenty-year old, but he can't find it in himself to care. He doesn't even know what 'home' is. He only knows that he thinks it could be.

He wants to be hugged and comforted and told precisely who he is and who his family is. He wants a kindly woman to appear with a bright smile and warm hands. He wants a sweet man to come with graying hair and a low chuckle of a laugh.

He wants to be told these people are his parents and they are here, wants someone to say that he's _safe –_ that he's loved. That he's a person with an identity he doesn't have to figure out and a life that is just right for him. That he's not insane, not even a little bit, and that the world makes sense and here's how.

Wants memories of a good, happy childhood with a lot of family and friends to magically spring up and chase away the darkness inside. Hell, he'd even take John coming back in and yelling 'Surprise! Just messing with you', he just wants _somebody_ to be here with him. He doesn't want to be alone.

But nobody walks through the doors, nobody says what he needs to hear. There are no answers for him here.

So Rex sits alone, clutches his arm, and he cries.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So John's bedside manner sucks. He's probably used to dealing with emotionally-dead providence agents. 
> 
> Feel free to hate this guy. (he did make Rex cry, after all)
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Please comment!


	4. Approach

Rex must've dropped off for a little bit, because the next thing he knows he is blinking open his eyes.

Rubbing at them, he finds that a few tears are even still wet on his face. He frowns.

He doesn't want to do anything, doesn't want to move even though his body aches for a different position, so he waits, closes his eyes again.

Everything hurts. Mercifully it isn't like the desert – no stinging pains or worrisome jolts, only a dull hurt fading into the background. All of that can be ignored, anyway. The raw, hollow feeling in his chest is the pain that throbs relentlessly.

Rex licks chapped lips and attempts to curl into a more comfortable position. He isn't waking up, he's going back to sleep, back to comforting unconsciousness...

Without his permission thoughts begin to surface in his mind – deep musings that are unfit for such a sleepy brain.

They swirl and drift up, breaking into any hope of going back to sweet sleep, and they kick his reluctant head into gear.

As if someone else is controlling him, his eyes slowly pop open. The white, tall ceiling glares back down.

His name is Rex. Yesterday he was lost in the desert. Yesterday he almost died.

Yesterday _sucked_ , he thinks with a shudder.

Today, though, he works for an organization called Providence. Today he is alive. He has something called 'amnesia'.

 

And he is alone.

 

The same uncomfortable jolt as before shoots through him, making his eyes well up and his good hand clenches tightly. Then he stops, blinks.

The doctor made no mention of family, he realizes suddenly. But he also didn't say that Rex _didn't_ have one.

None of his aches compare to the raw, tender hope that sprouts in his chest at that thought. It's beautiful and excruciating and wonderful and awful, all at the same time.

He _could_ have a family; he _could_ have parents. The John guy wasn't exactly super helpful or specific, so that means it could be a real possibility. It's such a gorgeous idea that it gives him strength to finally sit up.

"Maybe..." He clears his throat at his creaky voice. "Maybe that's who he went to call."

Excitement swells in him as he tests out the words carefully.

"My...my _family_."

It's such an incredible thought that he can't hold back a shaky grin, and decides he needs to find out for sure. He needs to go ask John himself. Because honestly, if he sits there or tries to go back to sleep, the paralyzing loneliness will eat him alive, and he needs to _know_.

He can't be just 'Rex' – he has to have a last name, a family. He has to have _someone_ out there who misses him.

Getting up proves to be much more challenging than expected, though. Rex can't actually remember the phrase, 'easier said than done', one of many things he doesn't know right now – but in a few seconds, he learns how it feels.

Sitting up is difficult and stretches ab muscles he didn't know he had. Trying to move his legs? Pain. Lots and lots of pain.

When the tingling, falling-asleep buzzing finally fades somewhat, he struggles to scoot to the edge of the bed and is breathing heavily by the time he makes it.

Finally, _finally_ , his bare toes – still crusted with red dirt and healing blisters – are inches from the floor.

There's sweat on his brow and a weariness in his bones, but he has made up his mind to get answers. He won't stop now.

He remembers his IV just in time – the ache as he pulls his arm around too much makes him look down, and there it is. Biting his lip, he eventually shrugs and grabs hold of the IV stand. It helps him keep his balance, anyway.

Still, he can't help but feel ridiculous as he stumbles and rolls his way to the door.

"Well this was definitely a great idea." He mumbles to himself.

Slowly, feeling very much like an old man, he creeps to the door and hears, faintly, someone on the phone. Someone angry.

 

"...he doesn't know _anything_!"

 

Rex freezes. Is that Doctor John? Is John talking to someone about him? Really? Seriously, what are the odds Rex would eavesdrop precisely on a conversation concerning himself?

Seems like something out of a sitcom.

The optimistic part of him whispers excitedly that the man _must_ be talking to his family! He must be telling him that Rex is okay (okay _ish_ ) and they should come get him, pronto.

He lets his death grip on the IV pole go so he can lean in closer to hear.

"Yes, fine," The doctor snaps to someone miles away. "Bring the Keep, bring a squad of soldiers if you have to – just get somebody down here! I wasn't trained to deal with amnesiac teen EVOs."

Everything is silent for a moment. The expression 'you could hear a pin drop' isn't in his brain either (probably never was), but Rex swears his heartbeat is the loudest sound in that moment.

A few seconds later, he realizes he's not breathing. Somehow, he doesn't think John is talking to Rex's family anymore.

More and more questions pile up, like some confusing snowstorm is brewing in his head.

What's the Keep? Why does the doctor need a squad of soldiers? Why is he calling Rex an EVO? What the frick even _is_ an EVO?

Distantly he hears the word _teen_ and it fits, it sounds applicable to him and that makes him thrilled, faintly. He _knew_ he wasn't old.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." The man is saying, sounding calmer. "Fine, yes, that's fine. See you in a few hours."

There's a small beep and a sigh, and it suddenly occurs to Rex that John is going to check on him soon. He doesn't like the man, never has, but now the thought of seeing him makes him... _anxious_. Uneasy.

Rex suddenly doesn't want John to know he heard the phone call, doesn't want to ask him about it.

He needs to move, then, he realizes. No more time for musing, or wondering about the phone call.

Heart pounding, he waddles best he can to the bed, dragging his IV stand cumbersomely behind him. It takes effort not to groan in pain as he scurries between the covers, and he isn't sure his lip's not bleeding when he's finished. He tries to look genuinely asleep, with his head facing away from the door and his eyes gently closed.

He wonders if he should start fake-snoring, but thinks it would just sound ridiculous. That thought, mixed with adrenaline, makes him want to laugh.

The doors squeak as they open. Heavy footsteps pound a little out-of-sync with his racing heart.

Quiet breathing sounds above him, so close that his skin is crawling.

"Hmm...wonder how this got here? Probably Jane again, the idiot...wait a second."

Just when Rex thinks his heart will explode, there's a gentle touch on his good arm.

It takes everything in him not to scream like a girl or punch the man in his face – but he only goes stiff, then limp, and then feels the doctor reattach his IV. Somewhere along the way of rushing back to bed, the needle must have slipped or gotten pulled out.

Oh, man, he hopes there's not like an obvious trail of blood leading from the door to him.

As he tries not to freak out, listening to the man's shuffled steps and quiet mutterings, the previous conversation resounds in Rex's mind.

_Squads...soldiers...amnesiac EVO...deal with me?_

Somehow, he doesn't think he can trust Doctor John anymore.

 

 

* * *

 

 

No one calls her to say they have news about Rex, but Holiday finds out anyway.

She's pretty good with computers. Also, knowing when people are lying to her. Honestly, she's only ever had skill with the former, but really, she's been getting better with the latter.

That's why she'd stomped her way into the Providence briefing room, heels clicking angrily against the floor, and demanded to speak to her boss. It felt awesome at the time – she's always wanted an excuse to yell at the man.

Only, this conversation isn't going as well as she'd pictured it.

"I need to be there. I am his _doctor_ , White Knight." She's insisting futilely, indignant fury searing through her veins. "You heard what Doctor John said –"

"He _said_ Rex that is exhibiting signs of amnesia. He _said_ that the few broken bones, cuts and bruises on Rex were signs that this amnesia is trauma-based." White Knight interrupts, his tone as quick and no-nonsense as ever. "You take care of the boy's nanites, Holiday. Our other doctors are sufficiently equipped to handle his physical injuries."

Her jaw tightens to the point of pain and she tries to stare the man down. He doesn't flinch, doesn't soften his look of disappointment at her loss of composure. This is what always happens when she attempts to give him a piece of her mind – he just gets that condescending look on his face, like he's thinking, _Oh, right, she's_ female _. That's what this outburst is._

And then _boom_ , argument over. Simply because she finally shows some of her true emotions.

Holiday wonders if this is what it's like to despise someone, really hate them with every cell of her body.

It feels like pain and fury and spinning out of control. It feels like someone has smashed into her car and then demanded that _she_ pay for the damages.

This. Isn't. _Fair_. She thinks, hisses it to herself in her mind. This isn't even _right_.

Suddenly White Knight lets out a sigh, looking less pure evil and more like a weary, burdened human being.

"He doesn't remember you, Holiday." He says softly, almost gently. _Almost_. "He's hurt and confused. It would only damage both of you to see one another right now."

All her hate and anger is drawn from her body, like someone has stuck a needle in and drained out emotion instead of blood. Pumped back into her system, like she's hooked up to an IV of it, is cold, cutting misery.

Tears of frustration and stinging hurt well behind her eyes, because she's a scientist and a doctor and a genius and she _knows_ that what he's saying makes sense.

Of _course_ it makes sense; White Knight isn't stupid, or cruel when he doesn't need to be. That's what keeps her from screaming at him all the time.

But this is Rex. This is _her Rex,_ whom she is entirely too close to. This is the Rex she hasn't seen for months, hasn't known if he was dead or alive.

And now that she knows he's here and hurt and alone, how can she not want to run over there and wrap her arms around him? How can she not _be_ with him?

It feels like being cut off from her sister again – still so, _so_ close, yet a world away.

"But, White –" she begins desperately.

"Wait a few days." He orders, all pretense of gentleness gone. "Wait until Six can recover him and bring him back to Headquarters. I don't want you on the Keep this time, do you hear me, Holiday? You will only cause him more confusion."

Well, now. He might as well have slapped her in the face. _Six_ can go see Rex, but _she_ has to content herself with news she has to sneak around to acquire.

 _Holiday,_ not Six (who have both known Rex just as long), will cause Rex more confusion?

So what, she can't control her emotions now, is that it?

A part of her acknowledges that no, she can't, not in this situation – no one could, not after so much worrying and half-grieving and so many sleepless nights.

Only Six, whose poker face is legendary, is stoic enough not to look affected at a changed Rex and yet still remind him that they are _friends_ and this is Rex's _home._

Six is qualified, trained for years this way. Holiday knows disease and medicine and how nanites work and Six...Six knows people, knows swords and knives. He is the perfect man for the job.

This is logic, cold and factual.

But she doesn't have to like it, though ( _she hates it, actually_ ).

So when White Knight asks to see Six, she crosses her arms, taps her heeled foot, and she waits. She glares at him and she stays, promising herself that if she can't change his mind by the time Six gets here, she'll find another way to see Rex.

She completely ignores the voice in her head reminding her that White could be right – seeing Rex could be the worst thing for both of them.

No, she thinks stubbornly. Nothing could be worse than going another day without seeing him.

_Nothing._

 

 

* * *

 

 

The infuriating, unwavering neon green numbers glare through the darkness at him. As he stumbles from his bed, one hand grips the dagger always kept on his person – just in case. It's dark but he trips over nothing, as his room is spartan and only messy when Rex comes in.

He doesn't let Rex in often.

He finds his shoes where he left them at the foot of the bed. It's too early and his vision is too blurry to bother with a tie, but he manages to tuck his white, button-down shirt into his dark pants.

Three point five seconds are spent contemplating his vivid green jacket. They feel longer than that – too long – and it's with that thought he decides it would only slow him down.

He's wasted enough time – a glance at the horrid clock reveals two whole minutes have passed since his phone went off – and he sweeps his katanas and glasses off the nightstand in one motion.

Then he's flying out of his quarters, squinting briefly at the bright light in the hall (fortunately, the sunglasses help) and running down the hallway.

It feels like flying. His breaths are smooth and slow, timed evenly with his footfalls. Everything about him seems too collected, too calm for such an early alarm.

He isn't so old to think of two am as unspeakably early – it's just that he rises at five o'clock. Sharp.

And when one spends the day training and working with a sixteen year-old EVO boy, one needs as much sleep as possible.

With his swords controlled by his sides, he runs past hall after hall, noting their sameness. All white and grey, all metal and concrete. It isn't like he can argue with Providence's lack of creativity, though – as Rex is fond to point out, he does wear the same suit everyday.

But he enjoys his routines. He appreciates having control, having something unchanged. In his world, where people could mutate at any moment and EVOs run rampant, and nanites continue to surprise him, he needs something unchanged.

He needs a constant.

Too bad that, too, has changed.

The phone that woke him up weighs heavily in his shirt pocket, thumping against his chest as he runs. Something whispers to him that he ought to be more panicked, more frazzled about this situation.

Six doesn't do frazzled, though. He tucks his feelings behind thick dark glass and looks out at the world through it, feeling safe knowing that they can't peer back in. It's the way he is – the way he was taught to be.

All he knows for sure is that two am is too early to be armed for a fight. He doesn't let his thoughts wander from that statement, or from keeping his pace even and his swords tight in his grasp.

It's difficult, though, when he barges into the briefing room. Holiday is there for some reason – and she's watching him.

She looks on as he slows his pace, not even breathing heavy, and stops calmly in front of the screen White Knight is on.

He pretends he is in his full suit and his doctor's lips aren't pressed into a hard, thin line. He pretends things are normal.

It's almost easy to imagine Rex, standing there, just in the corner of his eye...it's a close thing, but he stops himself from turning his head to look.

Foolishness. He has always been such a foolish man.

His former partner and friend gives him a glare that's both softer and harder than it normally is.

"Six. Get to the Keep. Now." He rumbles in that gravelly tone. "Rex just woke up."

There's no need for a reply.

By the furious expression on the doctor's face, it's clear she wasn't invited to this particular party. To his own surprise, he tries to send a sympathetic glance at her before starting for the door. But he forgets – he's wearing glasses and she can't see it.

It doesn't matter. None of it matters.

As he flees to the Keep, the giant ship that they take to fight the really bad guys (a bad sign in itself), he doesn't look back. He knows she'll be waiting for him on the ship – after all, she defied Knight for Rex the moment she met the boy. And of course she'll get there first, because she's better at navigating the endless levels of Providence than he is.

It feels like it's years before he sets eyes on the ship. How can it have taken so long to get here when he was running at full speed? He wonders as he cranes his neck to stare at the thing.

And yet, sure enough, as he predicted there's the sound of high-heeled boots scurrying up the ramp way and he catches a glimpse of a swishing white coat. She has already made it inside; now it's his turn.

He tries not to glare at Callhan when he boards the ship and the man gives him a few consoling words. He tries not to snap at the Providence men that join him on the ship ever so slowly. He attempts to still his tapping fingers – the only outward sign of his irritation – as he waits, but he can't.

Frustration builds inside as the pilot painstakingly prepares for takeoff. Why are they so slow? A glance down at his watch shows that he only took four minutes for himself, too much time to begin with, and how many more are they going to take?

This is the panic, he realizes with despair. This is the fear and the terror manifesting as anger.

Breathe, Six. In one deep, slow breath through the nose. Hold. Then out through the mouth.

He repeats the action a few more times and herds his fear and fury behind that thick, bulletproof glass in his mind.

It's difficult to tell if it worked or not.

Finally, _finally_ , the ship beneath his feet rumbles and leaves the earth. It rises quickly, despite it's size, and flies fast enough to unbalance even the most trained individual.

Six doesn't shift at all.

Soft, petite hands tug on his tense arms – he hadn't noticed her approach, and struggles not to reach for his swords – and they keep tugging. So he relaxes his muscles eventually, and uncrosses his arms.

Something close to comfort and warmth breaks through his being and into his heart, as Holiday's arm hooks in his and she rests her head on his shoulder. This type of thing she doesn't do often, and she doesn't do it because she's afraid – though, in this case, she probably is.

Holiday stays with him because _he's_ scared.

"It's going to be okay, Six." She murmurs, her voice deep with emotion. "He's going to be alright."

He doesn't mutter back _, but I should have been there_ , and yet he could've sworn she hears the words anyway, shimmering in the air between them.

That's one of the many things he... _appreciates_ about Doctor Holiday – her ability to sense everything he doesn't speak aloud. And...he keeps a lot of what he wants to say inside.

"I'm sure the kid's fine." He replies after a long silence, when he's sure no pain or concern will leak through his voice. "He...always is."

But Six knows his statement won't comfort either of them. Not like Holiday's physical contact. Not like seeing him with their own eyes will.

That's not who Agent Six is; he's never been a comforting person. He's simply not a warm guy.

As though she can sense his darkening thoughts, Holiday's grip increases. He wonders why she cares about him in the way that she does. Why... _how_ could you love someone as closed off as he?

That's the exact moment the ship lands. Suddenly all thoughts of warmth, cold, time, comfort – all of it flees faster than his earlier run.

Suddenly he's rushing down the lowering ramp with Holiday by his side, and suddenly there's only one thing left in his head.

 

Rex.

 

Six just hopes they aren't too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading! Please comment!


	5. Collision

Nobody, least of all Rex, is sure how he got here.

Well, maybe not. Maybe someone who works at Providence knows the whole story. Maybe they'd even tell it to him if he asked.

The problem is that he doesn't think he'd believe them. He doesn't think he wants to.

It's probably faintly - no, _completely_ \- preposterous, with robots and the future or something, and he'd bet any money he had that the story ends with him staying here forever. They'd probably even say it would 'be for the best'.

Isn't that something generic villains in movies say? Rex certainly feels as though he's stepped into a set of a movie, with everyone already in character and the cameras rolling. Only, no one has told him that this is all fake, and no one has given him a script.

He's like some extra that wandered into the wrong scene and the director won't yell 'cut'!

Rex takes a second to appreciate the fact that he can remember movies and tv shows, even though he can't think of his middle name, and mentally thanks Past-Him for getting his priorities straight.

But reality is quick to seep back in. This isn't a movie, this isn't a TV show, and whatever else Doctor John is, the man isn't a Bond villain.

This is real, and Rex really doesn't know what to do.

When he'd first awoken today (has it not even been a day yet?), he hadn't known what to think. His mind had been blank but for fear, and it had just been waiting to be filled with something. He'd learned it was simple to trust someone when they are all you know.

He'd assumed (incorrectly, perhaps) that people in white coats could be believed, that lies were a concept and not a reality. He'd assumed that they would tell him everything in time.

Now? Now he's not so sure.

Lying ram-rod straight in bed, his muscles tense and his back aching, Rex can't seem to calm the doubt and fear stirring inside his stomach.

He takes in the room with a wary eye, attempting to slow his rapid breathing.

 

He should leave.

 

That makes him simultaneously excited and scared. But the idea settles easily, quickly into his chest as The Thing to do (right or wrong), and he knows he can go through with it.

But _should_ he?

Weird or not, this is a hospital, these are doctor-y people, and they saved him. They _helped_ him, didn't they? Doesn't that make them the good guys?

The way John spoke about him on the phone, though...

So Rex 'works' for Providence, right, which apparently deals with EVOs. Only it turns out _Rex_ is an EVO, whatever the hell that is, and Providence is bringing soldiers to deal with him?

 _None of this stupid world makes sense_. He scowls to himself, feeling a headache coming on.

What is going on? Why is the doctor lying to him – or, best case scenario, lying to whoever was on the other end of the phone? Why do they have to have a 'Keep', why do they anybody besides medical personnel to handle him?

Is this about the motorcycle he may-or-may-not have hallucinated? Is there...something wrong with him?

Maybe there's something wrong with _them,_ his mind insists defensively. Yet whatever it is, something weird and conspiracy-like is going on around him, and he doesn't like it.

Suddenly he realizes he hasn't spoken with anyone else – just a man who calls himself 'Doctor John'. He's barely seen anyone else, either; only another doctor, and Rex had only glimpsed him from afar.

His suspicion deepens.

Now his idea is a decision, a choice to get out of this place. Now he's certain he's going to get up and try to walk out those doors.

Rex breathes out, calms his heart, and he tries.

As he pushes and pulls and wrenches and moans himself to the edge of the bed, places that he didn't know could smart and throb are doing both.

It's _hard_. He is pretty sure it wasn't this hard to get up the first time. This time he is sore and bruised, and maybe battered the most on the inside. This time he struggles because he's determined not to lay down in this bed again.

It is impossibly difficult. Still, he makes it and stops to breathe, feet dangling over the edge.

Sweat collects on his forehead and he's trembling a little, but he doesn't feel like he's about to collapse.

He remembers his IV better this time, feels it more in the bruised corner of his arm.

 _What's in the fluid bag I'm connected to?_ He wonders suddenly. How can he be sure there isn't something... _more_ than just normal healing stuff? How can he _know_?

Feeling slightly sick, he tugs it out.

A thin line of blood starts to drip down his arm. He can't remember eating anything – like _ever_ , even though he knows he has to have – but all the same feels something roll unpleasantly in his stomach.

He doesn't know these people, can't trust them despite them (probably?) saving him from dehydration, and doesn't think he should stick around a place with so many needles. If he has to remind himself of that fact all the way out of this place, he will.

He touches his feet to the cold floor and he stumbles on jelly-legs, clutching the bed rail desperately. Everything is banged up and he just feels so _weak_ – like he worked out for too long.

Was it this hard standing up the first time?

"Come on, you can do this." He mutters, glancing at the door. Paranoia drips into his mind, squeezes his chest. Sure he's alone right now, but how long will it last? When will John be coming back for him?

His head spins dangerously. Breathing becomes impossible with a block of fear choking his lungs. For a second he can only cling to the rail with his good arm, stare down at his treacherous legs poking out of the hospital gown, and wonder about his decision.

A drop of blood from his previously-IV'd elbow falls to the floor.

"What am I doing?" He says in a broken whisper.

Whether they're lying or not, they are taking care of him right now. They are tending to his wounds and feeding him (through a tube, although he reckons that would change if he stayed) and keeping him alive.

He doesn't know if he can do that by himself.

Slowly, the world swims back into focus and it doesn't feel so much like he's on a carousel. (He takes a second to marvel that he can remember what a carousel feels like, or what it's _supposed_ to feel like, but he can't recall his own age. What the hey, Amnesia?)

He gingerly releases his hold on the rail and lets out a sigh of relief – he hasn't collapsed on the floor. Now free, he tries to wipe his bloody arm off on his hospital gown.

 

"I'm leaving." He tells himself. "I can't stay here."

 

To prove it, he takes a step, wincing at the tenderness of his feet.

"You can do this." He steels himself.

He takes another step, then another, and another, until he is gulping in air and power-walking towards the exit.

There is a trail of small blood droplets following in his wake and goosebumps on his arms and a conspicuously empty bed behind him, yet his eyes are focused only on the door.

Pausing at it, he pushes it open and cautiously pokes a head out.

Looks left. Nothing. Looks right. No-one.

There are two empty hallways to his sides and neither look particularly like the way out of the building.

He stands there, curling his toes against the cold and gritting his teeth against the pain, and deliberates for several minutes too long.

Right, he decides on an impulse. He pads along as quietly as possible, tucking his bloodied elbow underneath his other arm's cast. He listens to his breathing echo in the silent hall.

Meeting another door and another set of hallways, these just as gray and unhelpful as the last, he barely ducks around a corner to avoid someone in a white-coat walking past.

After that, he moves quicker, though less quietly. He choose which direction to follow on random whims – but in the back of his mind each turn is cataloged and carefully put away.

Just when he begins to think he's lost in an endless maze, he spots a window. He sees _outside_.

There's actually a world out there – and it has roads and cars and soldiers. No one is looking his direction, he appears to be gazing out a side window, so he presses his good hand (no longer bleeding), his face, up against it.

The barely risen sun doesn't penetrate the tinted glass, but he smiles anyway. There's a world out there. There really, really is.

He was beginning to think there wasn't, that some catastrophe or apocalypse had happened and that civilization was no more. That there was just desert and scary doctors who won't answer questions.

Common sense returns (funny how often it likes to leave) and he realizes that if he stands around too long he will get caught. Also, windows don't make for good exits, he reminds himself, and they don't necessarily mean a door is nearby.

Not to be deterred though, he tramps onward. It's two more hallways before he makes a mistake.

He sees the door, the right one, marked with a red EXIT sign above it and everything, and he lets out a laugh.

It's unexpectedly deafening in the quiet hall. It's what gives him away.

Suddenly he hears a loud yell right behind him that pierces him with fear.

"Hey! You! What are you doing?!"

Then he's running, scrambling madly, without looking back.

He sprints out the door, the metal cool as he pushes it open and flinches as the horrible noise of an alarm meets his ears.

Chest burning, feet scraping the concrete painfully (probably bleeding), and the desperate terror of being hunted, being trapped, squeezing his insides, he runs as fast as he can. It no longer matters if these people really intend to help him – Rex has glimpsed freedom and he _needs_ it. He needs it like he he needs to breathe, but can't really, right now.

He needs it like he needs memories in his sad, vacant head. Maybe even more.

It's with that thought he looks down and sees his feet dangling below him. He squints and spots the ground dozens of feet away from him and realizes – he's _flying_.

Like really. No joke. There are red/orange jet pack things attached somewhere on his shoulder blades, he can't quite rotate his neck far enough to see, and they are propelling him into the sky.

"This is just like the motorcycle." He says blankly, over the roar.

Then,

"Oh-my-gosh-I'm-flying-how-am-I-flying-I'm-gonna-fall-and-die-and-and-this-is- _so_ - _cool_ –"

But there are like, a squad of soldier-y guys assembling on the ground below, and he knows he needs to book it. _Now_.

Nothing feels real anymore, nothing besides his throbbing arm and strained shoulders. Yet there's enough sanity in him to attempt to escape.

"Um...Forwards!" He tells his wings, feeling like a crazy person. He laughs hysterically when they obey.

When did his life become _awesome?_ Also, completely, utterly _terrifying_!

He reaches for his goggles and when he grasps air, realizes that they took it along with the rest of his stuff. Like his boots. And his pants.

Seriously, though – how did he end up in this situation?

Amongst the jumble of thoughts filling his brain and the cacophony of noises whirling around him, he thinks he can hear the sound of a breakdown coming. As if his day isn't terrible enough...

Suddenly, he hears a shout. It breaks through everything. It breaks through his very _skin_.

"Rex!"

His wings abruptly stop obeying, his back stiffens for a moment and then he's falling – speeding towards the ground with nothing but air to slow his descent.

A scream bursts from his throat. If he had the time or the clarity of mind in the moment, he would've laughed until he cried at the thought that someone has just surprised him out of his wings.

But he doesn't have the time, and the only thought in his head is one of fear, one of a desperate wish – _I'm gonna die I don't wanna die please please no._

He can't take the sight of ground rushing up to meet him so his eyes clamp shut and his lungs shriek all the louder.

Please.

No.

 _No_.

He doesn't want to die. Not after he's just escaped the desert. Not when he still doesn't know who he is.

Mid-fall, something slams into him sideways. Arms suddenly appear and grip him tight and he's falling, but in a different direction now, with someone against him.

They both land someplace not the ground. It's hard and it's metal, but it doesn't break anything and Rex rolls onto a stop on it after being tackled.

His broken limb is jarred and the sling is ripped. Blinking, he realizes he's reopened his eyes and glances around.

Blue sky dotted with white clouds. A metal roof beneath his scrapped body. He's no longer plummeting towards his death.

And...there's a figure kneeling a feet feet away. Probably the same one who saved his life just now.

Wow.

Rex has zero idea what to do or say. He finds he's trembling with exhaustion and has a great desire to be alone and cry, to go somewhere and try to make sense of a world he doesn't understand.

Who are these people? What do they want with him? Besides the fact that he can fly, apparently, and possibly turn his legs into a motorbike.

Why did they save him? Why can't he recall anything? And who _is_ he?

"Rex..." The figure turns and faces him, hands up in a placating gesture. It's the same voice as before – just as low of tone with a hint of gravel, and an intensity about it that shocks him to the core.

He thinks it's probably like how cartoon characters feel when they stick their fingers in an electrical socket, and blue lightning flashes and you can see their bones for a second. Scary and shocking – that's what listening to this man's voice is like.

Distantly, he remembers _aching_ for someone who knew his name to come in and hug him, tell him who he is.

But now he is scared and doesn't know what he wants. Now he is even more confused than ever and thinks he'd really like to wake up from this nightmare now.

He hears the phone call Doctor John made play over and over again in his mind, recalling the anger and frustration in it. They are sending _soldiers_ after him because apparently he's an EVO, which apparently, is something this Providence 'deals with'. Something bad, maybe.

Rex doesn't know anything right now, but he really thinks he doesn't want to be 'dealt with'.

"W-what do you want?" He half-sobs, struggling to his feet. "Who are you guys?"

Of course he's not expecting an answer. It's something of a futile gesture; though it feels an awful like begging, trapped as he is.

"Rex...look at me." His eyes swivel to the stranger's face, mostly blurred from tears. "Do you recognize me?"

He's taking slow, stumbling steps backwards, trying to keep track of where the roof ends. The last thing he's focusing on is this guy's face – he notes dark sunglasses, closed off features, thick brow, and then his eyes are glancing backwards again to see if he's about to fall off.

"No, _no._ Listen, I-I think you have the wrong Rex _."_

The stranger has stopped advancing. His hands are still up as though to calm a wild animal. Rex should feel insulted about that, but all he experiences now is terror.

"Rex. I know you don't remember anything. But I know _you_." The words sound fierce but genuine. Rex thinks that the truth might be scarier than lies right now.

"Let me help you."

Something is on the verge of breaking inside of Rex. He tries to calm his tears, he tries to _think._

Thinking is so hard right now.

This man knows he has amnesia, he says he _knows_ him, like for real.

But how is Rex supposed to trust him? How can he trust anything in this messed-up world?

"Y-you know me?" Disbelief saturates his voice. He hesitates, still edging back ever so slowly.

"Yes."

"Y-you can tell me...who I am?"

The man takes a step forwards, nodding stoically.

"If you come with me, I promise to show you, Rex."

It's how he says the word promise – as though he's swearing in blood on the lives of his family, as though he'd die before breaking his word – that's what stills Rex's feet.

Perhaps this man is a soldier working with these Providence people – or scratch that, he _definitely_ is. But he sounds so convincingly blunt, so honest, that Rex can't bring himself to run.

Honestly? Honesty sounds awesome right about now. He's ready to get some answers.

Gulping, he manages a shaky nod. It doesn't feel quite as like surrender as he'd thought.

"O-okay. Okay." He says.

The man doesn't smile, but he's very gentle as he helps Rex off the roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Rex finally meets Six! Again! Yay! Hope this story isn't getting too boring/angsty for any of you. ^^
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please comment!


	6. Impact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd. Also, um, slight (?) trigger warning for brief flashback to torture.

He sits alone in a strange room.

They gave him actual clothes to change into so he doesn't have to keep wearing the hospital gown – clothes that, he realized as he slipped them on, are suspiciously his size and look like the ones he woke up in the desert in.

He doesn't focus on them, though. If he does, he will start hyperventilating and then laughing and then crying.

Instead, he sits and he fidgets with his new gloves, tugs on his new jacket. He squirms uncomfortably in a hard metal chair and his gaze lingers on the dingy grey of the room.

It could be a debriefing room, he thinks. But it could also be a holding cell.

They were all calm voices and sweet, sweet promises as they waved him back into this cage, like owners coaxing a pet back into the house. They didn't yell at him or touch him at all, although there were a lot of sideways glances he couldn't interpret and low mutterings he couldn't make out.

Cold fear curls inside him as he wonders how long this gentle behavior will last now that he's trapped once more.

Will they rip off their reassuring smiles and reveal evil, smirking faces beneath? Will they torture him, kill him, do something else unspeakably horrible?

He doesn't know.

All he can do is sit and wait, and oddly enough it's the suspense that's terrifying him. His knee begins to bounce impatiently, his toes curling tight inside his new, large boots.

Every piece of him is frazzled nerves and tense muscles. To pass the time, he takes turns glaring at the door that is probably locked (he can't bring himself to try it yet – if it is locked, he will absolutely lose it and he doesn't want to freak out just now) and at his lap, at the arm still prisoner in its cast-and-sling.

Just as he's about to try the door, completely prepared to shout and scream and maybe punch something, he hears the faintest squeak.

The door opens and a man dressed in a green suit strides through.

Recognition (an ironically new sensation in itself) blooms over Rex's face. This is the same man that saved him on the roof – the same man that convinced him to come back here and wait in this unbearable room.

He settles in across the simple metal table, sitting opposite Rex in what has to be an equally ill-fitting chair, but he doesn't fidget as Rex does.

Slightly calmer than last time, Rex tries to take in the stranger.

Examining the man with a critical eye – adsorbing the green, crease-less material, the deceptively normal sleeves that the hilts of some weapon seem to be poking out of; the perfect tie, the shoes that shined, the short controlled hair – and his awesome shades, don't get him _started_ on the sunglasses, Rex decides...

This guy, soldier, Suit, _whatever_ he is sitting across from is a ninja. That's right, a freaking real-life, definitely-not-anime, intimidating master of martial arts.

A feeling not pain or fear or confusion spreads in his chest and tugs the corner of his mouth upwards. It's a moment later when he realizes the feeling is _amusement_.

"So." His confidence swells when his voice doesn't break. "Who are you?"

No emotion passes across Green Suit-Ninja's face, but somehow he thinks the man's shoulders stiffen the slightest bit.

"I'm Agent Six."

That's not a name at all – it's a rank and a number – but he manages a smile, if a sarcastic one, and says,

"Awesome. Nice to meet you, Agent Six. Do you happen to know who _I_ am?"

Ninja – Agent dude, whatever – pulls a manila folder from inside his green jacket and pushes it to him across the table.

It isn't what he's expecting (he has no _idea_ what to expect after the day he's having), but it's so refreshingly straightforwards that he almost sighs with relief.

"You are Rex." Agent Six begins, and Rex can't help but notice there's no last name attached. Still, Rex opens the folder and he peers at the files and he listens to what the man has to say.

"This facility is one of many secure Providence locations around the country. Providence is a militant organization that you've been working for for the past five years."

Somehow he's not afraid anymore – he suspects he's in such disbelief to his reality right now that he will hear out anything and anyone. He's worked for these people for five years, and can't remember a second of it? Sure, whatever.

Man, he must be really, _really_ tired.

"So...where are we, exactly?" Rex interrupts, eyes glued to the picture on the very top of the file.

"Southern Oklahoma."

He finds he has enough energy to be a little bit surprised.

"Huh." He says.

The picture that stares back up at him is of a boy, a teen probably, in a red-and-orange jacket, multicolored t-shirt, and dark pants and boots. There are familiar goggles resting on the teen's slicked back hair and a cocky grin lighting up his face.

Rex takes in every feature and fault, envies this boy his bright, happy eyes and his confident posture – and maybe he's slow, but it's only when he studies the boy's gloves that he _gets_ it.

It feels like someone has tipped a bucket of ice cubes down the back of his shirt. He shivers and swallows with difficulty.

_This is_ him.

And he didn't even recognize himself.

Perhaps he'd considered this a relative of his or a look-alive stranger, because even though he knows he can't remember anything, it still _feels_ like he would remember having that picture taken.

Of course he doesn't. Of course he can't.

"We met five years ago." Continues the Agent in a low, gravelly tone. "I found you after...an EVO accident. We've worked together ever since."

So he 'knows' this guy, eh? Just like Agent had claimed on the roof? Rex hesitates to believe it, choosing instead to focus on that odd word and this picture beneath his hands.

"EVO...I've heard that before. That doctor guy said _I_ was an EVO." He says accusingly.

Agent subtly adjusts his sunglasses, frown ever-present.

"There are different kinds of EVOs."

Isn't that nice and cryptic. But he's only half-listening, so it doesn't bother him too much.

Finally able to tear his gaze from _himself_ , he flips the picture over and takes in scrawly paragraphs of words, all about him. There are pages and pages here on himself and though he doesn't think he's big on reading (but maybe he is, how would _he_ know?), he wants nothing more than to study each letter and trace each word.

The conversation has taken a backseat to the file, though he manages to lift his eyes every so often to check on the stranger.

Confused, Rex asks absently,"What even _is_ an EVO?"

"Exponentially Variegated Organism."

"Expo-expoten-exponentially...that. EVOs." He gives up, thinking that he's like two days old and shouldn't have to deal with stuff. "What does that _mean_?"

Agent shifts just the slightest – which Rex concludes means he is uncomfortable in these awful chairs and he actually _is_ a human being after all, who knew – and sighs.

For the first time, he wonders if this is hard for Green Suit guy. Rex still doesn't know if he believes that he's worked here for years, knew this guy for years – but reading greedily through this file, he thinks he's starting to.

This...this is what he wanted; a life, a job, perfect for him to step into. Only he isn't the right guy to fill these shoes. Plus, the people offering this identity are shady and weird, and he isn't sure he wants what they are shoving at him.

"I don't suppose you remember the nanite event?" The Agent Six finally says.

Remember?

Rex's hands still on the folder. Coldness ripples through him.

"No." He gives the man a short, irritated glare, angry but eager to return to information on himself. "Didn't your doctor buddy John tell you? I have complete amnesia. Can't remember a thing. Uh, I think he called it retro or something..."

"Retro-grade amnesia."

"Yeah, that's it." He snaps his fingers, already turning his focus back on a page of mostly medical jargon that makes his head spin.

"You've had it before."

It feels like his heart stops. It's kind of funny, the man says that just as Rex is skimming to a part of medical history, where it says the very same thing. '... _amnesiac state...trauma-induced...most likely a repetitious disorder...'_ Every other word goes right over his head, but he understands the gist of it. _  
_

So he can't shout that Agent Six is wrong. He can't yell that of _course_ he's never gone through this confusion and pain and doubt before.

The proof is typed clearly and neatly beneath his fingertips and not even his doubts can survive the contents of the file.

Even so, there's still the reflex to deny it, to laugh it off, since there isn't so much as a flicker of familiarity when he hears the truth.

This...this nightmare, this terror...he'd gone through it once already?

"When?" He demands. When has this happened before? When did he lose his everything the first time?

"Five years ago."

It takes a second, struggling through his bog of emotions, but something clicks in his mind.

"So...around the same time we met."

Agent nods.

Perhaps the man has experience dealing with him not knowing anything. Rex isn't sure how to feel about that.

"But why did it happen again?" He presses, knuckles white as his clenched fists lie on the table. "Why before? Why _now_?"

It bothers him that he can't really meet the stranger's eyes through the glasses, frustrates him that he can stare at Agent Six with every bit of terror and disorientation and uncertainty pouring from his face, but can see nothing echoing on Six's.

"It..seems to be triggered by a traumatic event."

A shiver crawls down his spine.

"So something really bad happened. Like me breaking my arm?" He suggests. There isn't a tremor in his voice, but he's startled, _shaken_ , by the way the word 'traumatic' sends bursts of phantom pain blazing through his side. Ignoring this, he tries to lift his broken limb to show, but doesn't make it very far before the real pain kicks in.

It doesn't feel much different than his imagined aches, yet he can't dwell on that. He doesn't think he wants to.

Agent Six doesn't say anything for a minute.

His mouth twitching is the only sign of emotion and Rex wonders what that means. Is he struggling with himself? Is he angry? Is he just stupid?

Any of the ways, the silence irks Rex, like a bug creeping around underneath his shirt. He rotates his good shoulder and moves on the chair to a less-horribly-awkward-position.

Finally, Agent Six lifts two fingers and taps the bridge of his sunglasses, pushing them up an infinitesimally small amount.

Rex, unable to see Six's eyes, wonders if he imagines the slight head turn to look at the security camera in the corner.

"Have you figured out why you were in the middle of the desert yet, Rex?" He questions instead. Apparently, if you want to apply to Providence you have to be able to answer at least one question with another question.

But the query is valid nonetheless.

"I was...running away." He says, surprised to hear it himself. It's like his name, it's not a question; it's one of the only things he knows for certain. He doesn't know why he was running in the desert, but he's sure he was running. Fleeing from the pain, maybe?

Swallowing, he realizes that he believes he should _still_ be running.

That doesn't mean it wouldn't be nice to have some confirmation and a few details.

"Do you know from whom?" Agent Six asks him.

Rex says,

"I was beginning to think it was from you guys. Providence or whatever. But...I dunno."

He shrugs, attempting to play off his inner turmoil. Something like dread is squeezing his insides and he thinks about how he woke up in the desert, how there was a block of pain wedged in his mind, and hopes it won't come back just talking about the event.

This is the point where Agent Six adds, in his rumbling baritone,

"It was...from a man called Van Kleiss."

And that's when things fall apart. The name _means_ something to him; it means _everything_ to him.

_Van Kleiss_ might as well have been painstakingly carved into each one of his organs, because he can _feel_ the name knifing his insides every time he takes a breath.

Rex's vision begins to tunnel. He knows, distantly, that he's standing up and moving his screeching chair back, but, less distantly, he isn't sure he's breathing – but he's _completely utterly_ sure that the world has tipped over.

Nothing is real, but everything is agony. The pain can't be real, it _can't_ be, yet it's all he knows right now.

The sky is beneath him and the earth is over him; he's covered it it, buried under dirt and coughing it up and _no one will ever find him –_

Someone is laughing at him and it hurts, _it freezes him_ , and hands are on him, ripping through flesh and snapping bone and oh God it _hurts so much_ –

Trapped, he's trapped, caged and walled in and he can't breathe, can't remember what fresh air smells like or how oxygen tastes, and he's _terrified_ and _sobbing_ and _so so alone –_

Everything aches so much that the red dripping, pouring, gushing from him isn't blood, it's _pain_ leaking out. But if that's so, why is it only getting worse, he sobs, why isn't it getting better, _why does it hurt so much –_

Rex blinks and the world is right side up again. There are grey walls on all sides. There's a door a few feet away. He's in the holding cell/briefing room.

Someone has a tight, painful grip on his bad arm and when he looks down he realizes it's himself. Shivers crawl over his skin in waves, shuddering breaths are sucked in desperately, and he discovers he's crouching in a corner.

He blinks again and flinches at the sight of a woman in a lab coat. The Agent – there was an Agent guy, right? Green suit and tie? – is nowhere to be seen, but the doctor lady has taken his place. He wonders how he missed her before.

"Rex...Rex...do you know where you are?"

He hates the way she says his name, as though she _knows_ him, and absolutely _loathes_ how his tense muscles relax at the sound of her kind tone.

"I-I don't...I.." His tongue feels thick and useless. He tries to think of the name of this place and for a scary second, the memory doesn't come.

"P-providence?"

"Yes, this is Providence. I-I work for them. I'm a doctor. You are safe here, Rex. I swear."

There's a catch in her voice and he squints at her, taking in her face for the first time.

The woman is really pretty – probably even beautiful when she isn't trying desperately not to cry – with shimmering green eyes and soft skin and a dark red mouth strained into a trembling smile.

Rex has enough sympathy to feel bad about her rapidly-blinking eyes, but is also vaguely touched that someone is upset enough about what's happened to him to want to cry.

He knows _he_ wants to cry. Maybe he already is.

"I-I don't..." He rubs a hand over his weary face. "I don't understand _anything_."

The doctor walks towards him, stopping a few feet away to kneel to his level. Gratitude fills his chest that she doesn't invade his space – he doesn't think he can handle that when the swells of agony are just now ebbing inside him.

"That's okay. It's going to be okay, Rex. We can help you. If you let us." She says, so softly it's almost a whisper.

Then she offers a hand to him – small and soft and wide-open – and leaves it hanging in the space between them.

The woman doesn't push it in his face, doesn't force him to take it. He knows he can shove it away if he wants to. He probably _should_ shove it away.

But Rex is bone-weary and weak and throbbing from whatever just happened. He wants to _sleep_ , to be protected and taken care of.

He _needs_ to understand, but he also isn't sure he can, isn't sure he wants to. He wants people to have giant floating labels for his exhausted mind – wants the bad guys to have the words ' _bad guys'_ hovering next to them, wants people's true natures to be written on their foreheads.

But they don't. It's never that easy in life, something tells him. He has to decide to trust these people (or not) based on his own experiences.

That's a laugh. He has like, two days of life experience. What do you do with that?

Nothing in him knows, or if it does, doesn't share.

So, not knowing what else to do, and admitting to himself that she looked rather nice and kind, he reaches out.

Rex grabs her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading! Please comment and tell me what you think!


	7. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. I re-did this chapter several times, cause it just wasn't coming out right. It's still not quite the way I wanted it, but meh.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Holiday fell in love a long time ago. It's scary to admit it, especially since bad things tend to happen to those she cares about, but it's so true that it aches, sometimes.

It was sometime before White Knight tried to kill him and long after he walked in with bright eyes and a lopsided side.

Holiday loves Rex.

She's not a very motherly person, she doesn't think, and though she's a doctor she's also a scientist and some say that her bedside manner leaves something to be desired.

But when Rex looks at her, like she's something bright and brilliant and amazing, like she's the friggin' sun in the sky, she just melts.

She _wants_ to be motherly around him. She wants to be his protector, wants to be a person he calls family.

Wants to show him that he's not alone, not anymore, not with her.

She loves him like she loved ( _still loves, will always love_ ) Beverly – in a way she didn't know she still could.

He's Rex. He's stupid and reckless and full of terrible Spanish and even worse one-liners. He isn't good with feelings and can't deal with the crippling loneliness of not knowing who is family is, and he hides it all by acting even dumber.

He's wonderful at math and strategy, and he doesn't care. He has a big heart buried deep and a strong sense of freedom.

He's Rex, ridiculous and charming, and with every day Holiday can't help but love him more.

Today is no different, except... Today it hurts.

She hadn't imagined that this was how their re-meeting would go. She'd known he didn't remember anything, had seen Six's tense shoulders and the subtle lines of pain on his face when he'd reported back to her in the Observation room. She knows that if Rex didn't remember anything of his past in their five years together, he probably won't recall _them_ ever – but a stubborn part of her insists that maybe, if he's in a familiar environment with familiar faces, that will change.

Yet she had never considered that he might already remember something. That she'd want to move stars and planets to make it so that he didn't.

Six gets her and she's already nearly crying just watching the security cameras, but that's nothing compared to rushing into the room.

He can't see her. He probably can't see anything right now, except phantoms in his head.  
Holiday wants to run towards him and clutch him tightly to her, never let go – but that might make things worse.

She hesitates by the doorway. She hates how thin he looks, how his eyes are blank and dull as he shivers and rocks back and forth. There are scratches and scars where there should be smooth skin, and there's a limb in a sling when it should be free.

Anger boils in her chest at what has been done to him, but she knows she can't hang on to it. Getting mad won't help him now.

She breathes in deep, fills her mind of only soft things.

Then she starts to call him back from wherever he's gone.

* * *

Four days.

Rex is four days old, and he feels every single hour of it. He's like a curious child; he asks so many questions even _he's_ irritated by himself.

'What's that, Doctor Holiday?', 'What's this, Doctor Holiday?', and 'Why can I only remember bad stuff, Doctor Holiday?'. Just never ending inquires about anything and everything.

It's really friggin' annoying.

The doctor lady tells him she doesn't mind, but she says it with a tightness to her mouth and an odd look in her eyes.

Rex kinda understands. Apparently, for the first few hours he's with Providence (that is, the first few hours he didn't spend sleeping or running away from them), he just asked the same questions. Over and over and over and over.

He doesn't really remember that, and the doc brushes that fear aside easily with words like 'amnesia' and 'trauma' and 'first memories usually can't be stored' (he thinks it was probably just exhaustion though).

Still, he doesn't stop asking even when he can recall questioning something before. It's...a nervous habit, he supposes. A comfort, in these strange surroundings, that any answer he wants can be handed to him immediately.

He doesn't have to wonder, doesn't have to be blindingly ignorant. He doesn't have to die without knowing at least where he is and what he's doing.

Still, he gets that that could be frustrating to deal with.

He just wishes he knew how to stop.

"What's your first name, Doctor?" He asks today as he sits on her med table. He's not necessarily waiting to be looked over or anything, he's merely sitting there because this is where she is today, and her lab doesn't have chairs.

He swings his legs and studies a doctor-y, iPad-like chart thing in his lap, glancing up from his inspection to see her reaction.

Doctor Holiday looks over her own doctor-y, science-y iPad, probably doing more scientific things than Googling funny cat pictures, but she gives him a tired smile.

"My name is Rebecca Holiday, Rex." She says with complete patience. "Do you remember me telling you that yesterday?"

He stops swinging his legs and frowns, trying to think back to yesterday. Some moments are perfectly clear in his mind, like they are trapped inside transparent glass; while other moments are stuck behind foggy glass, the details changing, uncertain, as he desperately tries to see what's inside.

Usually, (like now) it is too much effort to think past today. There's something dark in the past, something that might snatch him away if he's not careful. So he doesn't bother trying to remember – only shrugs, goes back to swinging his legs.

"Maybe. I dunno. Nice name, though."

Her smile tightens, and he thinks he's maybe said that before.

"Thank you."

There's a sliver of guilt and shame growing in the pit of his stomach. _It's not my fault_ , he insists, shoving the feeling away, but that doesn't change the fact that it _feels_ like it is.

This is _his_ memory problem; it's _his_ brain. Shouldn't he be able to keep _something_ up there?

Apparently not, he thinks. He tries not to dwell on it, though.

"Rebecca." He mutters to himself instead, testing the name out. "Doctor Rebecca Holiday."

It has a pleasant ring to it, sounds long and grand and fancy to his ears. It also seems strange, since it still seems odd to Rex that not everyone has one, short name like 'Rex' or 'Six'.

Middle names are things most people have as well, he's at least half-certain about that, and he opens his mouth to ask hers, but then quickly shuts it.

_Save your memory space for something important_. Something in him snaps. It's probably right.

An urgent thought breaks in, dragging him delightfully away from his guilt.

"I wonder what my middle name is." He whispers. He taps a finger against the glowing screen of the iPad, wracking his brain for names, guy names, that go in-between the first and last part of a name.

Wait...He doesn't have a last name either. Unfortunately, he has a single name like some weird, infamous celebrity – he's just...Rex. _No, no, sir, ma'am, it's just Rex. No other name.  
_

Always just...Rex.

Something vital feels missing from that, though, and he begins to despise the sound of it in his head. His name needs _more_ , he thinks. It needs something else.

"What's my last name, Doctor Holiday?" He speaks up suddenly, making her look up again from her work across the room.

"We don't know, Rex." This time the patience is slipping slightly. There's a crease in her brow that wasn't there before.

"You don't remember us explaining this to you?"

A part of him is irked by her tone, by her are-you-really-this-much-of-a-child inflection.

"No, well, yes, but – what do you _think_ my last name is?" He clarifies. "Something cool, probably. Like Bond. Rex Bond."

Understanding blooms on her face, and her crimson lips test out a smile.

"Most likely not." She disagrees gently.

"Or Sanchez! Rex Sanchez."

After a moment, they both wrinkle their noses at each other in unison.

"Okay, not Sanchez." He admits.

"No."

They fall into a semi-comfortable silence. Both turn back to their ipad technology.

"Doctor Rebecca Holiday." He murmurs once more to himself. "Huh."

The rest of the afternoon is spent in the lab, Rex googling surnames and trying to ignore the way Holiday keeps glancing over at him.

He likes the feel of 'Rex Rodriguez' on his tongue until he catches her amused gaze. Rex realizes he's mouthing names to himself and tightens his lips immediately.

He doesn't mention anything more about names that day.

* * *

Rex isn't sure why, but he dreams. He doesn't think he should be able to – not when his chest feels so hollow, his insides empty and carved out, and his breaths gasp like the air around him is impossibly thin. There's a harsh, cold _nothing_ spreading inside him, an empty void that threatens to swallow him whole.

Still, the dreams come all the same. There's constant darkness, and there's always a sense of loneliness, but he thinks that sometimes the dreams stop. Sometimes they become nightmares.

He dreams of a deep, cruel laughter, visions of blurred faces in white coats, and people yelling, always yelling, for someone he's pretty sure is him. He can't ever hear the name they scream, though.

None of the dreams ever make sense. Sometimes they're in several languages, none of which are ever comprehensible – not the words, necessarily, just the _meaning_ of it all – and sometimes, even more bewildering, no one ever speaks a word.

They all leave him empty and desolate, feeling as cold and abandoned as a desert at night. Because as messed up as whatever junk he's seeing is, it's a _part_ of him. It's part of his memories or experiences or thoughts – it's some bit that is all _him_ , and that is almost worse than the nightmares.

Tonight, he isn't sure which one this will be. He can't tell whether it's a dream or a nightmare; he thinks it may be both.

Tonight, he dreams he is small, childlike as only his body remembers being.

Holiday is tucking him into bed.

The lab-coat is gone and she looks more like a mother (or how he images a mother looks) – with grey streaks running through her hair, glasses perched on her nose, and a kind smile turning up faint lips.

He opens his mouth and even in his small state, the voice that comes out is his regular teenage one.

"Tell me a story." He says.

She tips back her head and a laugh pours from her mouth, but he frowns because it doesn't sound right – but then, how would he know? He's never heard her laugh in real life before.

Nevertheless, Dream-Holiday settles into a chair beside his bed, a chair that probably hadn't been there a second ago. Rex is too caught up in Holiday to care.

"You always want to know more, huh?" She says, head tilted to the side and her hands folded in her lap.

Rex isn't sure what she means.

"Tell me a story." He urges.

That same generic, female laugh echoes again, only more sad this time.

"I've told you stories before."

"Again, again!" He demands, slapping the covers impatiently. The covers feel like nothing, but the rising annoyance starts to burn in his chest.

Dream-Holiday has a look of pity in her eyes. She leans over to kiss him on the forehead, to ruffle his hair like a child.

"Oh, Rex," She says. "You wouldn't remember them anyway."

Then she's pushing back her chair and walking out the door, gone even as he jumps up and goes to follow her.

Rex finds himself alone in a hallway. The hallway keeps getting longer and longer, and he starts to run but he can't find Holiday. Somehow he knows he won't, not here.

"Holiday!" He calls anyway. "Holiday! Wait for me! Someone, please!"

And then the hall starts to disappear, flaking out around him in pieces like it was never real at all.

Suddenly he's on a roof, his feet bare and bloody and his knees scratched up. He glances up from his feet and is almost blinded by a bright, burning red sun.

Agent Six is in front of him, sunglasses revealing nothing even in the light. The man's mouth is curled in a smirk – it's such a foreign sight that is occurs to Rex once more that he really is just _dreaming_ all of this. As in most dreams though, the thought is soon swept away, and he is left only with confusion.

"Agent Six, you're smiling." He tells the man, his brow furrowed. "You aren't supposed to do that."

Six doesn't answer him. Maybe he can't even hear Rex.

"I know you, kid. I know who you are." He says, like he's reading from a script – unemotional and rehearsed.

The words Rex is supposed to say next don't come.

"But... _I_ don't know who I am." Rex points out instead. They feel more natural on his tongue, they mean more to his current struggles.

"Oh really?" Six raises an eyebrow. Now they're _both_ off-script.

Suddenly Rex is jerked forwards, one of Six's strong hands clutching his shirt collar, and he finds himself staring Six in the eye.

One of Six's swords is raised to his throat. The grim smile never leaves the man's face, doesn't so much as twitch, making it oddly easy to remember that this isn't really him.

"You know _exactly_ who you are, Rex." Six threatens. "You always have. You knew long before we even met."

"N-no..." Rex says. The sword moves closer to press into his skin. It doesn't feel sharp, but Rex is somehow still scared.

"You _know_ , Rex."

"No! No, I don't."

"You know _everything_."

"No!" Rex insists, beginning to struggle against the agent's grip. It feels impossible and it only serves to tighten his captor's hold.

"You know exactly who I am –"

"No!"

Suddenly Rex doesn't want to know where this is going. This is a dream – _his_ dream – and he should be able to control it, but he doesn't remember how to.

"– you remember who Holiday is –" Six continues, ignoring Rex's screams.

"No, no!"

"– _and_ you know better than anyone who –"

"STOP!"

"– _Van Kleiss_ is."

Rex manages to break away and stumbles a few steps backwards, collapsing to the ground.

"I don't, I don't, I don't know..." He cries. Tears are wet and burning on his cheeks and they feel more real than anything else here.

"I don't know anything about him."

"Rex, don't lie." Abruptly, the voice changes into something less gravelly. The tone changes into something quieter, softer, and way more frightening.

Rex jerks his head up. Van Kleiss is standing in Six's place, smiling the same way the other man had.

"You're only hurting yourself."

There's blood dripping from his golden claw, blood as red as the sun behind them, and Rex despite his dread can't help but follow the blood trail back. It ends by his feet, and he realizes the blood is coming from _him_ , from his chest.

He looks down and sees five needle-sized holes gushing blood on his shirt.

When he throws back his head and screams, the only person around to hear it laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So maybe Rex has a few left over issues. Hehehe...
> 
> Also, I want to repeat that I do not ship Rex/Holiday. I love the familial bond they have, kind of a cross between mother/son relationship and older sister/younger brother relationship, and I love writing that but I do not see them romantically. Hope if I confused anyone that cleared it up :)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please comment!


	8. Docked

So, like, five days ago Rex decided to trust these Providence people, right?

He decided to trust them a few hours after he'd determined they were deceitful, no good doctors. Rex can name a couple reasons as to why he's been so fickle – stress, lack of memories/experiences, realizing obvious problems like he has no where else to go – but none of them are _good_ reasons.

He should make up his mind. That's what confident, self-assured people do, isn't it? They make up their minds and don't change them for anything. And Rex really does _want_ to be a confident, self-assured person.

The problem is that he doesn't know how to be. He is starting out with minimum confidence and no one around here has any to spare for him. He doesn't even know if he can trust these people – his opinion on them seems to change everyday.

Today, he doubts his decision to stay. Today, his feet itch to run and he subconsciously keeps rolling his shoulders, like he's readying himself to summon his wings again.

Rex doesn't run though. He didn't run two days ago, when he had mentally declared all of Providence shady, dishonest crazy people with morally ambiguous doctorates.

Tomorrow, he suspects, he will be reassured of their (relative) sanity. Tomorrow, he'll probably remember something important and encouraging about them – like the fact that they saved his life in the desert, for one.

He knows that, he _knows_ that he's horribly self-doubting and prone to second-guessing, but now he watches two scientists whisper suspiciously in a dark corner, watches them glance right and left, and he thinks he can _never_ trust these people.

Sliding his fingers soundlessly against the wall, Rex turns and walks away. He's silent as he wanders through the walls back to his room. He runs through various escape routes in his mind, partly to calm down and partly to be prepared, just in case.

Two lefts, a right, and three hallways from his position is another fire exit, he knows. And if he were to go up two flights of stairs, turn right then left then right again, he would reach a balcony that he could (theoretically) fly off of.

He breathes and he reminds himself of these plans, and the unease prickling the back of his neck dims somewhat.

Maybe he can't trust these people, but he won't be helpless if they try something.

 _When_ they try something.

Rex stops in front of his room, rocking back and forth on his heels, and wonders if he really wants to spend the next hour staring at a wall.

It is apparent, after coming here on their giant flying ship (the Keep, he thinks it's called), that all Providence bases are exactly the same. Each one has walls of pale grey, each one lacks decoration of any kind, and each one is filled with endless corridors and silent soldiers dressed in white and black.

Headquarters, Serendipity, whatever others – they are so alike he sometimes wonders if he ever actually left one.

Well, no, he knows Headquarters is _slightly_ different, because it actually has a room for him. Er, it has a _broom closet_ designated to him. Calling it a 'room' feels a bit too generous.

Rex peers into said room – cough _broom closet_ cough – and eyes the few things in there. There's one bed, small and impossibly uncomfortable compared to the ones in medbay, one red rubber ball discarded on the floor, a few spare clothes and boots in a dresser, and a small bag tucked under the bed.

At first, he'd been excited when they'd told him he had a room. He had been impatient to see it and perhaps a little scared, and had made them take him to it straight away.

This cramped, impersonal _cell_ had not been what he'd had in mind. It lacks personal touches, any bit of individuality, and most definitely _space_.

He'd been hoping for a look into who he is, who he's been.

This barren space gives him nothing.

That doesn't mean he hasn't already spend hours in it, lying on the bed, staring up at the blank ceiling. He's even bounced the ball around a few times, just to try and see if it triggered any memories. Any _good_ memories, that is.

But all he feels in that room is trapped.

It doesn't take much effort for Rex to turn and walk away from it, so he does.

He's supposed to be finding his way to Holiday, he remembers suddenly, so she can check on his injuries and see his progress. He knows if he _doesn't_ make it down to her lab soon, a soldier or that weird talking chimp will appear and drag him there.

Rex kinda wants to let that happen. Again.

Maybe he wouldn't be able to claim getting lost this time (not for the sixth time in a row), but he's certain he can come up with something that will make the Doctor sigh and put a hand to her forehead. Sure, the lady's nice and pretty and sad, but _man_ is she fun to annoy. If Rex knew a way to irritate Agent Six, you bet he would be doing that too.

Rex realizes that he might be a jerk. He thinks about it, glances up at the ceiling in consideration, and has to force down a smirk.

He also realizes that he might be okay with being a jerk.

_Rex Doe. Approximately sixteen years old. Works at Providence. Likes motorcycles, not having his arm broken, and combat boots. Also, possibly a jerk._

Well, at least it's something, he thinks as he mentally adds it to everything he knows about himself.

Yeah. Something. Thank God for something. It's not like most people don't have to content themselves with _something_ , not like most people don't already know hundreds of things about themselves and don't have to _look_ and _search_ for the tiniest scrap of information regarding their own past.

But sure. He has _something_. Thank goodness.

"You done being bitter and angry at no one?" He mutters to himself. "Good, cause it's probably time to go see Doctor Holiday."

He says it, but makes no move to leave right away.

The arm wrapped in a cast is hugged closer to his chest, his hand tightening in his shirt. He hates being poked and prodded, shudders just _thinking_ of someone's hands brushing his left arm, but he does understand the why of it. Logically, he understands the need to make sure his cuts are not infected, he understands that as a doctor, Doctor Holiday is there to help heal him, not to hurt. But sometimes, when fingers are wrapped around his forearm, he forgets that. Sometimes he can only see golden needles piercing his skin and he can only hear the loud snap of his bone breaking and he just...

Lately he can't breathe around Doctor Holiday, and it has nothing to do with Doctor Holiday at all.

"You didn't used to hate doctors." He says quietly to himself. He knows it's true – he _feels_ it, like he felt that Rex was his name – and this new information almost lifts his spirits.

Almost.

"You can do this. She's your friend." He pushes off the wall and reluctantly makes his way through the halls.

Rex wishes his heart wasn't beating faster at the thought of being touched, wishes he had more than amicable first impressions to tie to his 'friend', Doctor Holiday.

Breathing deep, he prays that today, for the first time ever, he remembers something _good_.

* * *

He doesn't. He's not that lucky.

But her fingers are warm on his skin, her smile kind, and he only flinches once.

It's progress.

* * *

Though he isn't well enough to go 'out in the field' (Rex still isn't sure what that means, having never gone out in the field before), he can cure people just find from within Providence.

It's the strangest sensation, curing people. It's empowering and draining; it's surprising, and it's really freaking cool.

All he has to do is touch a hand to one of these creatures (EVOs, right?) – not even a _bare_ hand either, he can do it with a glove –and the monsters turn right back into people.

The first time he does it is both awesome and disappointing. When he watches this six-foot, vaguely insect looking EVO shrink down into a little girl, he feels _powerful_ – he feels like a hero. It's not a bad feeling.

And of course the first thing Rex wants to do is tell someone, brag about it – "This is literally the coolest thing that has ever happened to me!" – but then it hits him.

 _Everyone around him already knows_. Rex has never been so simultaneously excited and frustrated. He is _awesome_ and nobody cares one jot.

If he had a blog, he supposes he could blog about it. But he doesn't think he's that desperate yet. Probably.

So he cures people (he enjoys that most).

He avoids going 'out in the field' (but he still has training, which sucks.)

And he meets a talking chimp named Bobo, and figures, there's no possible way his life can get any weirder. Like, he can turn his body into machines, the whole planet is infected with chaotic nanites, and he has regular bouts of amnesia – but the speaking monkey is what finally gets him. This is freaking _insane_. Surely, the world has thrown its worst and strangest at him; there can't conceivably be anything more that could surprise him.

Then the chimp says, "Hey. You wanna go TP the lounge?"

Something inside him settles, accepts, and just forgets the definition of 'normal'.

And Rex goes, "Yeah."

Partly because he wants to (he wishes he'd thought of it himself), partly because, honestly, what else are you gonna say? No? (he's fairly certain the chimp would eat him if he declined)

And so Rex's life gets even crazier, but also a little bit more fun. He thinks, _I can do this_.

_I really really can._

* * *

In the end, it isn't mistrust or fear that drives him from Providence.

It's a phone call.

Rex hadn't even known he had a phone, but apparently he did, and he'd left it in his room before his...unplanned trip. He finds it one day when he's playing with the red rubber ball. After a bad throw, the ball rolls under his bed and while at any other time he might have left it there, right now it's his only distraction from boredom. Therefore he drags his butt out of bed, crouches down, and reaches under, cursing his luck as he bumps his bad arm.

 _Why is my life so hard?_ He thinks to himself as dirt begins to stick to his shirt and something alive skitters past his fingertips. A shudder runs through him as he thinks of what might be under his bed, his arm aching to be pulled back and washed thoroughly.

And then his hand brushes it. Something...something new. Rex tugs it out, blows away the dust, sets it in his lap.

It's a cell phone. The device is rectangular and smooth and high tech, if a bit dirty. Obviously it's dead (it's been like a month), but he's not to be deterred.

It's not ten minutes later that he's gone and scrounged up and working charger that fits his phone.

This is something exciting. This is something _personal_. It probably has text messages and phone numbers and personal touches that will reveal _something_ of Rex's past life, he thinks. This will have what his room was so clearly missing.

So for an hour, Rex sits patiently by the wall, watching a blank, black screen, waiting for so much as a flicker of life.

The wait is _excruciating_. He starts to wonder if the phone is broken, if this is even his. If he'll find anything more than he found in his disappointing room.

Slowly, so _so slowly_ , the clock ticks by. The phone charges. And finally, it lights up, like a small beacon of hope turning on again inside Rex.

"Yes." He hisses excitedly to himself. "Yes, yes, _yes_."

He slides his finger impatiently across the screen to unlock it, visions of what could be waiting inside already dancing in his head.

But it has a passcode.

Of course it has a passcode. Why _wouldn't_ it have a passcode? Why would this be any easier than all the other difficult parts of Rex's life?

Surely, Old!Rex wasn't stupid - he probably had stuff he desired to hide on his phone, stuff he hadn't wanted others to see. For a minute, Rex taps the phone to his head in thought, thinking, _I can do this, I can work around this._

He tries _1234._ Nope. He tries _4321._

Nada. Next, he might try some sequence of his birth date numbers, but unfortunately, he doesn't have a clue as to what they are.

Maybe the date Agent Six found him?

"Crap. I don't remember what it was." He mutters to himself. Honestly, he really needs to listen better when people are talking. Especially when they are talking to him. _Especially_ especially when they are talking to him about _his past_.

Wait.

Rex could smack himself for his lapse into stupidity - he simply wraps a few fingers around the device and _tells_ it to open, no password required, and it does. Geez, he'll never get used to these nanites. They could solve so many problems if he ever remembers that they're there...

He isn't ready for what's on the phone. It's what he's been craving, what he's been _needing_ ; it's _something_.

Right off the bat, the background jumps out at him. It's a picture, showing Old Rex and another boy around his age, blond hair and green jacket, the pair of them making ridiculous faces for the camera. It's a picture of something _real_ \- Old!Him has his arm thrown carelessly around Blond kid's shoulders, and there's this easy, happy laughter shining bright in their eyes. Rex doesn't think you can fake that kind of fun. The photo looks even more genuine than Rex's scars.

This is...this is a friend. Blond kid isn't a boss, isn't a partner, isn't Rex's doctor; or at the very least, isn't _just_ that. What the phone's background shows is that this stranger is a pal, a buddy. This is his _friend_ ; and he has the physical (well, virtual) evidence to prove it. Somehow, his mouth has gone dry with excitement.

With shaking fingers, Rex scrolls through contacts and finds a picture that matches the background. It's the same Blond Kid, the same green jacket, and he even has the same, easygoing smile.

 _Noah Nixion_ , Rex's phone book names.

Carefully, Rex mouths the name to himself several times, says it aloud once. He waits for lightening to strike - he closes his eyes in anticipation of a memory.

Nothing. Not so much as a flutter or recognition.

Fighting disappointment, he looks down again, meeting that calm, frozen gaze, and searches for more clues. More probing discovers an item his eyes had skimmed over in their rush.

The name has a phone number attached.

Suddenly Rex's brain flies straight out the window (well, he doesn't have a window - maybe straight out the doorway?). If there was ever any logic rattling around in his head, it's consumed now by a strong blast of adventure and thrill.

 _He could totally just text this person._ He has the number, the time, the inclination. Why not? Noah might have answers, and bonus, he's a kid that's actually _Rex's age_.

So, heart in his throat, skin buzzing with excitement, Rex fumblingly types out,

_Noah?_

And presses _send_.

It takes a minute. Then two.

Three minutes go by and Rex is beginning to search the rest of the phone for clues of his identity. His delighted curiosity has begun to dissolve and his previous depressing, monotonous restlessness is sinking in again. This whole day is proving to be completely disheartening.

The slight, high-pitched _ping_ that sounds as he receives a text makes him jump a little.

_Rex?_

Noah Nixon has actually _answered_. A smile breaks free on Rex's face, something like joy beating rapidly in his ribcage. Before he can type a single letter in response, however, the floodgates open.

_WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN DOING?! I HAVENT HERD FROM U FOR OVER A MONTH! DO YOU NO HOW WORRIED I WHAS?! PROVIDENCE WOULDNT ANSWER MY CALLS! ASkWHSADFHLWEUOHDSD! ! !  
_

This is proceeded by a torrent of angry emojis. Okay. Wow.

Suddenly Rex wants to turn the phone back off again, pretend he never contacted this 'Noah', pretend he didn't just make this big mistake. This 'friend' is probably a crazy person. Why did he think this was a good idea? Contacting old friends - hasn't Providence been stressful enough? What is he supposed to say now? How can he calm down this dude?

'Yeah, sorry I haven't seen you in a while - I actually don't remember you at all and had no idea you existed. Apparently I've lost all of my memories and am totally different from the person you met previously...so...wanna hang out?'

Rex has no people skills, but even he is fairly certain that that wouldn't go over well with Neurotic Noah. Not even if he added like, a billion little happy faces.

The teen deliberates for a long while. He's already opened this particular can of worms (Holiday is surprisingly full of weird expressions and phrases, and they've started to slip into his vocabulary) and since Noah is furious/nuts to begin with, Rex can't make it any _worse_. On the pro side, this kid might know stuff about him that could help Rex remember. But how to get information out of Noah while keeping him in the dark about his amnesia? Rex doesn't understand his condition; he's loathe to try and explain it to another.

Finally, he decides to compromise by sending,

_srry. Got hurt. Better now._

Short and reassuring, right? No way Noah will be able to tell much with that. Perhaps the teen might even feel comforted; he had seemed a 'little' concerned over Old!Rex.

Satisfied for now, Rex exits Chat and begins to study Old!Rex's apps, which are admittedly pretty boring. Some are stupid, some are little games...ooh, that one looks like fun. Most, however, have little to do with Rex's previous personality, and when he realizes this five minutes later playing Candy Crush he sighs and sets the phone down.

"Thanks for nothing, phone." He says. "Really. I give you five out of five stars for unhelpfulness."

But maybe the phone does not appreciate that comment, because that's when it begins to ring. It is, without a doubt, the most _annoying_ ring tone in the history of ring tones, and suddenly Rex doubts whether this is his phone at all because never, in _any_ life, would he pick this _ear-murdering_ tune.

It's like if Country and Screamo and the worst of all tone-deaf pop stars got together, had a baby, and then recorded themselves torturing said baby.

"Stop. Stop stop stop. Just _shut up!_ " He begs his phone, fumbling, trying to press every button in hopes that one will save him from this torment. He presses the wrong one.

_"Hello?"_

"What? Hello?" Rex asks, confused. "Who is this?"

He thought he had hung up on this person. At least the music is over.

_"Rex, it's me. Are you okay?"_

Well that's a very broad, unanswerable question, considering all that's transpired in the few days of his life (that he can remember), and that he's not sure what the heck 'okay' even entails.

"Um. Yes." Rex decides. Keeping it short and simple, right? No random person on the phone wants a length reply to that question, anyway.

There's a soft sigh of relief.

_"Good, good."_

The voice sounds male, youngish, and holds the slightest hint of an accent. None of this tells Rex who it is, though, so he continues to hold his breath.

Abruptly, the voice on the other end explodes.

_"THEN WHERE THE HECK HAVE YOU BEEN?!"_

"I-" He tries.

_"It's been a frickin' month, Rex!"_

"Well-"

 _"Do you know how stressful it is to try and pass Calculus_ and _worry about your best friend at the same time?!"_

"Um-"

_" WELL, I'LL TELL YOU - it's pretty freaking stressful!"_

"I-I guess that would be-"

 _"I made an 83 on my last test, Rex! An 83!_ That's _how crazy I was going, not knowing what happened to you. For all I knew, you could've been killed going after some EVO, or lost or kidnapped or something, and Providence would never tell me!"_

Rex gives up trying to butt in and settles in to wait out this guy.

 _"Well, I mean, I kinda get that if something ever happened to their Cure, Providence wouldn't want to advertise it - don't let this go to your head but you are pretty important, Rex - but the scary thing is wondering if they would ever tell me. Not knowing is like, the_ worst _thing in the world."_

A stone sinks down in Rex's stomach. _I know what you mean_ , he thinks bitterly.

There's a pause, perhaps for breath.

_"Oh crud, that was really insensitive of me - I-I mean, no! I don't care! I'm still FURIOUS with you because apparently you're okay, even though you haven't been answering my texts for weeks or responding to my calls. What is UP with that, man?! Seriously. Not cool."_

Rex is kind of getting that this must be Noah. The worry is sorta nice, in the way that tripping and then catching yourself at the last moment is sorta nice; it's like having a good-bad thing happen, instead of a bad-bad thing. A less bad thing. Something about silver lines and clouds, is what Rex is trying to say.

And the 'best friend' thing? Rex thinks he wouldn't _mind_ having one, even if this one seems a bit on the loopy side.

The only downside to Noah is that he requires an explanation for further friendship and Rex feels his mouth dry simply thinking of talking about this.

_"...Rex? I-I think I'm done ranting. Probably. I'd really, really like that explanation now. And it had better be GOOD."_

The following silence makes Rex's heart pound with nervousness. He could hang up, he thinks. Even if he can't find the button he can still throw the phone away or just walk into a different room.

Yet he doesn't. He supposes it's that ingrained sense of stubbornness kicking in again. Or maybe that's just stupidity. Same thing, right? 

"Um.." He starts. He doesn't know how to finish. 

_"Yes? I'm waiting."_

Something takes over suddenly, something confident and made of 63% TV teenager.

"I..I can't talk about it over the phone. Tell you what, let's go get pizza - I'll tell you about it then."

Rex holds his breath, waits for Noah to laugh at him or demand to speak to the 'real' Rex. Neither happens.

 _"...Pizza Hut in ten."_ Is all Noah says. It's a huge relief. _  
_

"Yeah, yeah. Sounds good." Rex says, nearly stuttering.

And he thinks it really might.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one has any idea how much I hate this chapter. I really, really don't like it. Buut...I finished it. Finally. Took me long enough, right?
> 
> So I know how I want to end this and where I'd like it to go to get there BUT there's this annoying middle/transition patch that just. Won't. Come.
> 
> So...yeah. Sorry guys. This will take a while yet to finish. 
> 
> Headcanon: Noah is one of those people who always takes the time to spell his texts correctly, refusing to use 'u' for 'you' and numbers for words and so forth. He probably has serious issues concerning people using 'literally' to mean 'figuratively' too (I am that person). BUT he is so freaked out and concerned by Rex's reappearance that all of his insistence on grammar and spelling while texting is just gone. And if Rex ever remembers, he's gonna look back on that text and laugh his butt off at 'Grammar Nazi Noah' sounding like a normal teen.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks to anyone still reading this :D


	9. Anchor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! It's been awhile since I posted....sorry? 
> 
> Thanks if you're still reading this!!

Rex admits that he mainly went for the pizza.

What? He's a growing boy and his stomach was getting really rumbly. Plus, _pizza_. It's PIZZA. He would murder a man for a good slice.

Anyway, he shows up to the pizza place ten minutes after his first ever phone call, belly starving and smile nervous. The place is not particularly busy, but no one looks at him strange for loitering.

When one of the employees asks him if he's ready to order, he shakes his head, realizing he has exactly zero dollars in cash. And zero dollars in credit. Basically, he is flat broke. Rex really hopes Noah brings some money when he comes, otherwise this will be a very awkward conversation over water and no pizza.

Noah (bless his rich heart) does not disappoint. After spotting Rex, who offers a tentative wave that goes ignored, Noah - who looks exactly like his picture - walks to the counter and orders a large cheese pizza, slapping a twenty dollar bill down perhaps a tad harder than necessary.

Then he strides over to Rex's booth in that I-really-want-to-run-but-that-would-be-inappropriate-in-this-setting jog that people do.

"Rex." He says formally, all the chill of Antarctica packed into his tone.

"Noah.." Rex replies, trying not to let it sound like a question.

Silence reigns for a long moment. The sounds of other people enjoying their food pop into the foreground. Still, neither boy speaks.

There's this extremely awkward patch where Noah seems to be attempting to light Rex on fire by glare, and Rex is doing everything he can to avoid that intense gaze. The dam finally breaks when the pizza arrives and Noah starts screaming.

Well, he yells until people start giving them looks - then he lowers his voice to a very upset conversational tone. It's mostly about Rex being a colossal jerk, not calling, not texting, yada yada yada. Then it just becomes rant after rant.

Dang, can Noah rant - the short blond seems to _love_ ranting - but it becomes easy to tune out the second Rex crams a slice of pizza into his mouth. Then, everything narrows down to him and his extremely, out-of-this-universe delicious meal, and he hears nothing else. It's not as though he would understand any of it, anyway.

"You done inhaling the pizza?" Noah's comment breaks into his new-found heaven.

In-between stuffing a sixth and seventh slice into his mouth, he looks up guiltily.

"Um..." He swallows with difficultly. "Yes?"

"Good." But Noah is smiling, so Rex knows the teen is simply teasing. Apparently, most of his anger is already out of his system. _As well it should be, considering how much he yelled at me_ , Rex thinks. Then the blond turns serious again, and Rex realizes his thirst for answers still has yet to be satiated.

"So what happened to your arm?"

Suddenly Rex isn't hungry anymore. He lifts a shoulder, avoiding Noah's gaze as he absently stirs his drink with a straw. There's an abrupt thickness in the back of his throat and a mild concern that he might lose all of his recently gained food.

"I dunno." He says, even though it's a bit of a lie - he can still see the gleam of gold, and a laugh and a fall. His fingers feel ice cold, and his broken arm aches anew.

Then he decides to just come out with it, rip the band-aid off.

"I-I actually...can't remember."

There's confusion and (surprise surprise) more worry on Noah's face.

"What, did you fall and hit your head or something? Is that how it happened?"

Rex realizes Noah is thinking only of his arm, and suddenly just wants to bolt. He already got his pizza, after all.

But he swallows and tries one more time.

"No, I don't...I can't remember anything."

Noah stares. He doesn't blink for at least five minutes, and Rex thinks that's probably bad. It certainly doesn't make him feel any less nervous or self-conscious.

It's what feels like an eternity of awkward, uncomfortable staring later before the boy's jaw just goes slack, and he runs a hand through blond hair.

Noah blows out an exasperated, disbelieving sigh, his cheek falling limply into his hand.

" _Again_?" He says.

"Um...what?" Rex replies wittily.

"Oh man...oh man oh man oh man..." Noah is moaning into his hands, shaking his head back and forth as though denial will change the situation. "Really? _Really_? Why, of all people, did my best friend have to be a reoccurring amnesiac?"

"So you..you know about my memory problem." Rex struggles to get out. It's one thing for Doctor Holiday and Agent Six to know things about himself he doesn't, but it's an entirely other matter when random people know things he has barely just learned.

Sometimes ( _most_ times) Rex feels like the stupid kid in class; he's always the last one to get the answers.

Knowing that there could be lots of people out there that have some of his secrets tucked away inside, some secrets that maybe even _he_ doesn't know/remember, makes his stomach turn in anger and anxiety.

"Of course I know!" Noah exclaims. "You tell me everything, you blabbermouth! But, I guess you don't remember - duh, Noah, _amnesiac_ , of course he doesn't remember - wow, yeah, I think I'm panicking a little, because I'm usually much smarter than this."

" _You're_ panicking?"

If Noah, who is the only person at their table who knows who everyone here is, is currently losing it, what chance does Rex have to keep it together?

"Yes, I'm panicking! That's what I do!" Noah snaps.

"Well don't! You're freaking _me_ out."

"You can't just tell someone who's panicking not to panic! That is like the worst thing you can say!"

"How am I supposed to know?" Rex shoots back. "I just got here!"

"Oh man, okay. let's just - let's both _breathe_."

Rex tries to, biting down the, 'What am I, five?' remark that bubbles up, because while sarcasm might be a great coping method (how would he know), it's probably not the best for making friends.

"Okay." Noah breathes out and maintains at least an illusion of some calm. It helps Rex calm down, too.

"So." Noah begins.

"So."

"You don't remember anything."

"That is correct." Rex says.

"But you called me. And texted me. How did you know my number?"

Fumbling a little, Rex takes his phone out of his pocket and says,

"You were in my phone's contacts. Well, first you were on my phone's background," He has already disabled his password, so he swipes easily and shows Noah the picture. "So I knew we were probably friends."

Noah looks at the background and then smiles a little, kinda surprised about it.

"Oh. Yeah. I forgot about that pic." The blond shakes himself out of it. "But...I mean, I seriously ranted at you. Probably a lot."

"Probably?" Rex raises an eyebrow, unconsciously imitating Agent Six.

Blushing a bit, Noah clears his throat and continues,

"You still wanted to meet some wacko who yelled at you for five minutes straight?"

Rex considers.

"Well...I did get that we were good friends." He says truthfully. "And honestly, I'm pretty short on friends right now."

Noah nods.

"Fair enough."

"So...I guess I came to ask you about...me." Rex admits. "If you don't mind answering like, a few billion questions."

Noah shrugs amicably.

"Seems like a fair trade for how much I yelled at you. But first, I'm still kinda hoping to hear how all..." Noah gestures vaguely, " _this_ happened. We were never sure what it was that would trigger the memory thing."

Rex gulps, his palms going cold and clammy, and he tries not to let his feelings show on his face. Noah deserves _something_ , he tells himself.

He can at least say his name, right?

Right?

 _I_ can _say that monsters name_. He insists to himself. For his new friend. For Noah.

"Um...t-they say...D-doctor Holiday says I was kidnapped. S-she says the name of the guy who did it name is...V-V-Van K-Kleiss."

Rex hates that he stammers as he says it, but honestly, it's a miracle he doesn't vomit or pass out too. It takes a moment, reminding himself where he is, that he's _safe_ now, dammit, before he can glance up from the table.

When he does, he finds Noah frozen, staring at him, open-mouthed yet again.

"Van _Kleiss_?"

Rex has a feeling that Noah has lost all of his recently collected cool.

"You're saying you were kidnapped. By your _mortal enemy._ Van Kliess?!"

Okay, if Noah freaks out again Rex knows he will too, and he can't handle this right now.

"Noah, if you say his name again I will punch you in the face." Rex says - no malice, no anger, just fear in his voice. He can't...he _can't_...

"Right." Noah breathes again.

They lapse into an awkward silence, Noah choosing to stare at his drink and Rex refusing to look up from his tapping fingers. This is a new experience, he thinks.

This - this particular strain of _too much_ hanging heavily in the air. Then again, Rex has never had a best friend before, so...

After a too loud slurp from his cup, Noah licks dry lips and glances back up again.

"More pizza?" He suggests, a little desperately.

Rex has never been more eager to say yes.

* * *

"Any news?"

"No. We tracked Biowulf and Breach to Nevada but they jumped through a portal before we could catch them. No sign he was even with them."

"Damn it."

"..."

"Don't look at me like that, Six. I showed you the x-rays. You know exactly what he did to him. Don't tell me you're not as angry as I am about this!"

"Rebecca..."

"No. _No_ , Six, Van Kleiss has to pay. We speculated what might cause Rex's amnesia - we thought it _might_ be trauma-based. It's the minds' way of coping, sometimes, when current situations are too...too much. But what he did..."

"...I know."

"He _tortured_ Rex. He tortured a _teenage boy_ and I can't...he did it on purpose. He _wanted_ this to happen! He wanted Rex to forget."

Sigh.

"...What worries me most is why."

"I know. Why now? Why does he need Rex?"

"..."

"We'll fix this, Holiday."

"No. We won't; no one can fix what he did. Not ever. But we can make him pay. That will...that will just have to be good enough."

"I hope so."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Um... Wow this one was short. But it's better than nothing....right??! 
> 
> Lol. I hope you liked the re-meeting of Rex and Noah. I don't really write shipping, but they are one of my fav brotps, so that might have snuck in a little. 
> 
> I have no idea when I'll update again, but thanks for reading! Please comment :D


	10. Calm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who still read this? Kudos. Seriously, you can have all my chocolate. You're amazing. You are the reason I'm (trying) to move past this writer's block. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you so much!! Love you guys <3

“This isn't anything like what I thought it'd be like.” Rex says, leaning back in Noah's chair just shy of falling over.

 

The pair have moved to hang out in Noah's home. Rex likes that word; home. It has a ring to it that makes his lips quirk and his chest fill with warmth. It feels....right. He wonders what it says about him that he still doesn't consider Providence his, that he thinks he never will.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Noah squinting up at him from his bed. The blond has his phone by his elbow, a comic book spread before him, and a calculus book discarded to the side; Noah thinks he's good at multitasking. Rex has decided against telling him otherwise.

"What isn't like you'd thought?" Nixon asks.

Rex gestures uselessly around him, frowning at his inability to communicate.

 

"The world." He finally says. "I mean, when I first..." _stepped into this life_. "...got here, I thought maybe it was just me. I thought my life was weird. But. The whole world is just -"

 

"Crazy?" Noah finishes.

"Yes! It's crazy and everyone rolls with it! Like when someone turns into a monster, it's not, 'ahh!! we're all gonna die!', it's all, 'wow, we should call providence quick'. Doesn't anyone think that's _weird_?!"

Noah toys with his mechanical pencil, tapping it to his chin as he thinks.

"It used to be weird." He tells Rex slowly. "It used to scare people to-to horrible things. Insanity, suicide. People would go around screaming about the end of the world, that sort of thing. I-It was bad."

Rex settles the chair back down, wheels around to look Noah in the eye. He leans forwards onto his elbows.

"So what happened?"

Noah shrugs.

"Time, I guess? Time and people learning what to do? It's hard to be terrified of the end of the world when it's five years late in coming."

 

"Huh."

 

That sounds about right.

Still. When he thinks about - when he _remembers_ how - when he -

His brain said goodbye to his memories of friends, family, work, but there are so many other memories that got stuck like toilet paper sticks to your shoe. Things that are boring - like how to brush his teeth, how he combs his hair, how to eat a hamburger.

He remembers a world full of laughing children, and green grass, and cities that worried only about politics and pollution, not monsters. He remembers _people_ , normal, usual, boring people, simply walking around and living their lives. He doesn't remember this.

He doesn't remember the world being wrong, and okay with that.

Absently, he tilts the chair back again, looking out Noah's bedroom window. A woman walks by with a stroller, purposefully not glancing at an abandoned house across the street.

Rex doesn't need to ask to know who - or what - lived there.

 

"Still seems weird to me." He mutters, more to himself than to Noah.

 

Ah, well. Just another item of strangeness to add to the list.

He hadn't meant for Noah to respond to his little comment, but the blond looks thoughtful, saying,

"I suppose it is." With a laugh, Noah flips back to a page in his calculus book. "Could be worse," He says with a gleam in his eyes. "We could've been invaded by aliens."

Rex grins, rolls his eyes at him.

"Now _that_ would be weird." He says.

A loud musical sound makes both of them jump. Noah puts it together faster than Rex, pointing at his discarded jacket and saying,

 

"Your phone, man."

 

Rex has to blink. Oh. Right.

 

He has a phone now.

 

He _really_ needs to change the ringtone.

 

Pulling it out of his pocket with slightly trembling hands, an odd excitement fluttering in his chest, he pushes the button to accept the call.

"Um...hello?" He tilts the phone away from his mouth so he can ask Noah, "Is that how normal people answer the phone?"

Noah looks a little too eager when he says,

" _Yes_. That is absolutely how normal people answer the phone. They do _not_ , under any circumstances, call themselves Special Agent Rex or any variation thereof."

"Wait, that's an _option_ -"

"Rex." It's the Agent's flat, monotone voice breaking into Rex's query. "There's been an incident down town."

 

 _Incident_? Rex wonders. _Oh yeah. That's what they call these EVO event things._

 

 __“__ Right.” Rex says. “Yeah. Uh, okay.”

 

There's an awkward silence that hangs in the air, and the tension slowly builds, like someone hanging off a cliff slowly slipping to their doom. Rex imagines it's him, and can picture the moment he finally falls.

“Rex?” The Agent asks, almost gently. It comes out a bit Doctor Holiday-ish, actually, which would be pretty funny in other circumstances.

But.

Rex is so unbelievably stupid, little ignorant amnesiac as he is, and is furious at himself for it. He doesn't want to say it. He doesn't.

“Uh, yeah...where's downtown?” He hears himself blurt out.

On the other end of the line, the man sighs. It shouldn't make him flinch as hard as it does.

 

“Noah can direct you.” The agent reminds him. “Or there's a GPS on your phone.”

 

 _Now that sounds like something a guy like me could really use_. Rex thinks, still blushing sheepishly. At least he's facing away from Noah, so his friend can't see his embarrassment. _  
_

“Thanks.”

“Rex...” For one insane second, Rex wonders if the Agent will say 'be careful' or 'I love you' or something else nice and mushy and encouraging, but of course he doesn't.

What is Agent Six, his dad or something?

Instead the gruff tone comes back.

 

“Come soon.” And the call ends abruptly.

 

“Bye.” Rex tells nobody. He's so stupid. So optimistically dumb. What is it about having amnesia and being told these people are his friends that makes him think they'll be nice to him? They probably weren't ever particularly nice to him, probably think he's weird for expecting such behavior. How would he know - he's never had friends before.

Man, he's such an _idiota_.

Rex wonders why, if he knows how ludicrous and irrational his thoughts are, the lack of affection still hurts - he wonders why his chest still aches.

Rubbing at it absently, he turns to Noah with a fake smile on his face.

“Okay, so apparently there's been an _'incident_ _'_ and I need to get downtown like yesterday...”

 

If his friend can see through Rex's act, he keeps it to himself.

 

And Rex isn't sure if he's grateful for that or not.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The incident is surprisingly lame. There is a little girl that's slightly less little and considerably less girly, sprouting a couple extra arms and maybe a few tails and a couple extra kilograms.

Her nanite form is slow, though. It knocks over a couple of fences, her house's front door, and sends her parents' into hysterics – but that's about it.

Rex cures her after what has to be the world's lamest foot chase, and doesn't even get hit in the face or anything.

 

It's pretty easy.

 

All in all, after the debriefings he'd gotten on past EVO's, this one is disappointing.

Though he does get to practice his flying a little. It's fun; feeling the wind in his face; enjoying the sensation of his stomach bottoming out as his feet leave the ground; and figuring out at the worst possible moment he forgot to learn about landing.

Doctor Holiday might say it was a 'learning experience'.

The monkey would laugh and say he fell on his butt.

Noah...Noah would film it, probably, and check to make sure Rex is uninjured before mocking him.

 

For his part, Agent Six simply adjusts his sunglasses and frowns, looking like he is holding in the biggest sigh of his life (which is pretty much Agent's default expression), not saying a single word.

(the silence doesn't hurt as much as Rex thought it would - frankly, he'd have been more upset if Six had yelled at him or done something else out-of-character)

It's alright in the end though – Rex cures the little girl, doesn't have more than a scrape on his knee and a bruised ego, and he gets to see the greatest part of the job when the kid and her parents reunite.

 

It's...it's good.

 

It's _great._

 

Sure, the look of the parents' faces makes something deep inside squeezed and tight, makes his fists tighten with-with _longing_ , but that can be pushed aside for the glow it also brings, from doing something _good_.

 

This job is something Rex can see himself doing. For a long time.

 

Helping people. Saving lives. Reuniting loved ones.

It puts meaning into his life – a meaning he can _connect_ to, anyway, because he knows all too well what it is to feel lost. To _be_ lost.

 

Maybe he still doesn't feel like these people's tough, carefree Rex, but he thinks he could be a kind Rex. A Cure.

He thinks he could find real identity in that. Maybe.

He doesn't even have to remember, doesn't even need to dig through old memories to do it, too, so that's a plus.

A big plus. A he-can't-even-tell-someone-how-big-that-would-be-to-him kind of incentive.

  
Because....

He hasn't told anyone about the man that haunts his dreams. He is supposed to tell Doctor Holiday about nightmares – about the golden claw and the pain, and the silk-smooth voice whispering in his ear, making his entire body shudder with fear – but he can't bring himself to speak the words aloud.

It might make them true. It might make the dreams a-a _memory_.

And if that's all the memories waiting for Rex, then he's not sure he wants to remember anymore. He thinks he's perfectly happy saving people with minimum training and partners that he can (most likely) trust.

He goes to bed that night with these ideas and issues whirling around inside him, a conflicted, uncomfortable emotion heavy in his stomach.

 

He's satisfied now, in this life, excepting a few rocky relationships. (Right?)

He can figure out his friends and Providence and the world being different, and he can do it without his memories. He can _earn_ Agent Six's respect; he can live up to all the standards always shinning in Holiday's bright eyes; he can take new pictures with Noah; he can make this life into whatever he wants it. 

Can't he?

 _I guess I'll just have to see_ , Rex muses to himself in bed. But maybe some of his old arrogance is coming back, because he closes his eyes to sleep with a smile on his face and determination in his heart.

 

He _can_ do this.

 

 

He _can_...

 

* * *

 

He wakes up to panic and a hand covering his face.

 

 _I can't breathe_. _I can't_ breathe!!

 

It's all he can do to lurch forward and scrabble uselessly at the obstruction on his face, heart pumping wildly.

 What's happening?!

He can't see anything in the dark, but he can _feel_ the arm around his neck, and the breath above him from the intruder disturbing his hair.

He tries to scream. He doesn't want to die. Yet all the muffled noises end up accomplishing is costing him more air, air that he doesn't have right now.

Rex's eyes are watering, his vision blurring, and his struggles increasing. He can hear his heart in his throat – he can feel all too well the burning need for oxygen in his throat.

 

 _I can't breathe_. Is all he can think. _Have to get away_.

 

But the hand tightens easily over him, clamping down on his nose and mouth, and he begins to black out.

Too late, he remembers his nanites (he blames the lack of oxygen). Too late, he tries to call to them.

The last thing he knows is his nanites whispering to him weakly, and arms pushing him down.

 

Then the darkness overtakes him.

 

And Rex remembers no more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the cliffhanger, guys but...
> 
>  
> 
> I finally found the plot! For real this time!! It's so exciting!!!!1!!!
> 
> For the longest time I had all this stuff planned out about Van Kleiss's super evil over-the-top convoluted scheme, AND all this angsty, Rex-finding-himself junk, and I COULDN'T CONNECT THE TWO. AT ALL. 
> 
> It was so frustrating you guys. 
> 
> Now I (maybe?) have connected them? If it's too jarring then...well, you can tell me. I'll just be sad. 
> 
> My mad ramblings aside, thank you so much if you're still reading this (also if you've just started) and please comment and tell me what you think! 
> 
> You're the best~  
> ^^


	11. Squall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning - panic attacks and a flashback to torture.

It's dark.

 

That's the first thing Rex notices – it's dark and it's quiet. But he's awake and startled and scared, as though someone had crashed a pair of cymbals right over his head.

 _There's something wrong_.

A pervading sense of unease seeps in as he crawls towards consciousness to figure this out.

It's – it's the floor. That's the second thing that breaks through to him. The floor is cold, jagged, and rough, scuffing his palms as he struggles to sit up.

He's on the floor. That's weird.

Rex doesn't sleep on the floor. Most people, him included, sleep in beds.

 

So...why, exactly, is he on the floor?

 

He glances down at the loose pants and dark shirt he wears as pajamas, squints on his shoe-less, sockless feet, and recalls, dimly, crawling into bed that night. He'd been sleeping earlier; he hadn't started out here.

A trickle of common sense eases back into his mind as he wakes up, making him stand, peer around the room.

The room is dark (he knew _that_ ) making it impossible to see farther than a foot or two. That, or there isn't anything _to_ see...

Wait. Hadn't there been someone in his room? Hadn't he been afraid of...of something?

Anxious now, Rex flails his way to a good, solid wall, and begins to feel his way around. He's hoping for a light switch, or a door or a latch to a window or – or _something_.

But there's nothing. Just...nothing.

 

Rex is suddenly wide awake and terrified. Gloveless fingers scrape at the cement wall for any bump or doorway-shape, and he finds he's counted at least four corners, but no door.

He goes around again and again, just to be sure.

Ten seconds later, he's breathless and dizzy and not sure at all. What if the room is made up of six corners? What if he's somehow skipped a section completely? What if he's dizzy and confused? What if the door's in the center of the room?

 

What if he's trapped?

 

It's finally thinking the word that does it. Rex barely feels himself stumble to a corner and crouch there, arms straining around his trembling self as his eyes look and look into the darkness.

"I'm trapped." His mouth mutters. "I'm in the dark and I'm trapped. I-I-I..."

A firm, Doctor-Holiday-like voice whispers urgently in his mind. _Calm down. You have to breathe, and calm down, Rex._

_Remember the rule of threes._

Rex tries to think, tries to function as all the oxygen seems to flee the room.

"U-um..uh..."

 _The human can survive three days without water._ Holiday voice prompts _. Then three hours without shelter, and three minutes without air._

Without air...he thinks the air in the room is dwindling. He isn't sure if he can feel his toes.

 _Rex. You can only survive three_ seconds _if you don't have...what? What, Rex? What_ _do you need most to survive?_

He hears himself breathe. In, and out. In and out. It takes more calm than he currently possesses, but he fakes it, and he makes himself think of anything else.

 

"Hope." He whispers to himself. "You need hope to survive."

 

Fingers in front of his face, he counts to three and breathes again. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold.

He counts to three another time, and another, until his heart no longer pounds in his ears.

When he is finished panicking (though he's still too sheepish _and_ too scared to admit that's what he really was doing), he swallows and stands.

He continues to talk to himself, because he's found that it helps.

Plus, apparently he knows a lot more about this survival thing that he knew he knew. Cool.

"Okay. I can get through this. I've been kidnapped. Apparently." He sucks in air through his nose, and lets it go shakily. " _Again_. But I can get out of here. If this is...if this is what happened last time –"

He doesn't let his mind dwell on all that comes with the last occasion of his kidnapping, the one he wishes he could completely forget, and instead steers his thoughts to something useful.

"– then I know at least one thing. I _can_ escape. I did it before, right? So I'll...I'll just do it again."

Yeah. Easier said than done. If Rex knew what he did the first time, he wouldn't be having this conversation with himself right now.

 

Wait. Wait wait wait – he's made this mistake before, he made it (hopefully) less than twenty four hours ago.

He's leaving his nanites out of the equation.

 

Chuckling mirthlessly at himself, he shakes his head, and feels that oh-so-necessary hope start to flare to life in his ribcage.

"Alright guys, go for it." He tells his nanites. And they do.

Though his eyes have adjusted as much as they can to the darkness, he still can't quite see the build – but that's okay.

He can feel it; his weight shifts to the balls of his feet, his shoulders ache and his arms feel large and bulky.

"Giant fists don't fail me now." He jokes, then wonders if that's a reference, and how exactly he remembers _that_ and not something _useful_ , but that's just life right now, Rex guesses as he pounds on the wall.

 

It's satisfying. It makes him feel a hell of a lot more in control. It makes him laugh.

 

Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to be doing much in the way of giving him an exit. So, smartly, he switches walls.

He tries every wall, he knows he does, because his fists leave craters in them and create debris on the floor. Now he can verify that there are, indeed, four walls.

But all four walls are not budging.

Rex works and punches until he's breathing heavy and he's slipping in his sweat, but he doesn't see daylight and he doesn't make himself an exit.

There's rock on the floor. His toes have stepped on the pieces enough times to make him swear. He's doing _something_ , he has to be, but somehow he's nowhere near being free.

Breath heaving in his lungs, heart roaring in his ears, the terrifying thought comes back to scare him, now with even more proof to back it - if he can't find a door or windows, _where is his air coming from?_

 

It's still not a cheery thought. Not helpful.

 

Soon he's hyperventilating and he can't tell whether it's because he's used up all his air or he just thinks he did.

"Breathe." He whispers frantically. "Breathe, breathe, bre -"

But he can't. He can't.

It's like telling someone terrified of reptiles that there might be a snake in their room and then turning out the lights.

The room is getting darker, his fists shrinking to normal, oddly fine hands (except for the broken arm that hadn't hurt in giant mode), and he is sure people around the world can hear his loud, loud heart.

 

Rex has just enough sense to sort of wobble into a crouch before everything crashes down on him and his head is tipping over, his limbs out of his control.

 

Then he's gone.

 

* * *

"How? _How?!_ "

"Holiday, if you can't calm yourself, you will be removed from the premises."

 

A huffy, amused scoff.

 

"Oh, just try me, White. I dare you. How could you let this happen to Rex? _Again_?!"

"Nobody _let_ anything happen - "  


"You sent Six on a wild goose chase yesterday! If he hadn't been somewhere in Europe looking for Van Kleiss on some- some flimsy _rumor,_ _he_ could've prevented this!"

The stench of unwanted pity fills the room. It's covered up quickly, replaced by something like guilt.

"We... _I_ thought Breach was in Asia. Van Kleiss hasn't even tried to break into our facilities for months, Holiday. I thought...he might've given up."

A broken laugh. No, a sob.

Strength under the tears.

 

"You thought wrong."

 

"By the time my people informed me of Breach's meddling in our other stations, it was too late, Holiday. She'd found the right base. There was...nothing we could do."

"Right. Of course." That's sarcasm, angry and heavy.

A heavy, heavy sigh.

"Just like last time."

The sound of silence and regret stifles the chamber, and not a soul speaks for a very long time.

A deep breath. Courage and perhaps understanding.

 

"You're going to be the one to tell him."

It's petty revenge, in the scheme of things. For now, it is enough.

"Alright."

 

"And we _will_ find Rex again. We will."

 

"Alright."

* * *

Daylight makes everything better.

 

Of course, when you've been kidnapped for the second time in the past year, probably by the same people as before, and slept through the previous night by hyperventilating yourself into unconsciousness, well, better isn't much.

It is something, though.

Light pours in from high up windows, their cracked panes filling with a sort of pride - maybe he hadn't _seen_ them last night, but he'd at least _hit_ them. A couple of times.

The room is illuminated enough for him to spot the outline of a door, too. It's reinforced, probably, and has no nob or handle, but has a clear crack around it where it should open.

 

"Wow. Can't believe I missed that." Rex mumbles to himself, after he'd already dug his fingers into the cracks and tried to open the door in vain.

 

Except, yeah, of _course_ Rex missed this because he'd been kidnapped and panicked and it had been really dark, okay? People don't think straight when they're terrified in the dark.

Something jolts through him, and a voice flashes through him like a volt of electricity.

 

_"Afraid of the dark, are we?"_

_"No. I'm not." He hears himself say, still feeling defiant despite the bruises._

_That cold smile makes him regret it._

_"We'll have to fix that, Rex. Don't you know what lives in the dark?"_

_He's not going to say it, he shouldn't say it, he won't -_

 

_"Cockroaches like you?"_

 

_A blink of gold is his only warning before he's yanked up by his wrist, the one that already aches, and white, spindly fingers creep up his arm._

_Rex tries to fight - he flails, his feet off the ground, and tosses his fist toward the general direction of his opponent. He's not stupid. He knows what's coming and he doesn't want it._

_But._

_But._

_He hasn't eaten in a while, or slept a full night's sleep, and in this state he can't control his nanites. He's human and pathetic. He can do nothing in the face of this monster._

_Van Kleiss laughs at him._

_"Didn't your parents teach you manners, dear boy? No? Leave it to me, then."_

_That's when the cutting, the slicing with small, sharp knives, starts._

_A cut along his hand.  
_

 

_"You're weak."_

 

_A slice down his forearm._

 

_"You're pathetic."  
_

 

_The bloody knife bites into his shoulder, and he cries out without meaning to._

 

_"You can't even save yourself."_

 

_Now there's a bleeding cut on his neck, on his cheek, on his ear._

 

_"You deserve this. Only the strongest survive, Rex. Be strong, or suffer."_

 

_The knife hesitates on his cheek, right under his eye, and he can't breathe, he can't move -_

 

_"P-please," He says. "S-stop! Stop!_

 

 

"Stop!"

 

Rex is jolted from the flashback the same way he'd gone into it, violently, and he comes to himself scared and sure he's bleeding.

He'd...he'd just _remembered_. It hadn't been a confusing, frightening nightmare, or a jumble of images and emotions he couldn't make sense of, but a whole _memory_. Not even a scene or something that he thinks _might_ have happened.

A real memory. Rex really, actually remembers that. He recalls how he felt, what clothes he'd been wearing, how, despite being nauseated, he'd still been so very hungry.

"I remembered something." He says to himself, shocked and numb. "I remembered something..."

And how unfair is it that the first memory he got back is a bad one? Not just a bad one, but a sickeningly awful one. It's Van Kleiss literally torturing him.

"I remembered something." He says again. Even to his own ears, he sounds small and broken. He sounds like all the names Van Kleiss had called him, all the adjectives that had been carved onto his skin.

 

"I..I remembered..." Not love, not home, not himself. Not anything even resembling safety.

 

He remembered one of the worst days of his life.

Mouth opening and closing, Rex finds he can't finish his mantra.

 

For a long while, he can't do anything but wrap his arms around his knees and rock back and forth.

 

And there's no one there to comfort him, but himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The rule of threes is a real survival thing. Which, you know, is pretty cool. Remember, you can't survive long without hope, guys. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	12. Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning - dissociation, blood, depressed kid, probably some sadness

Rex isn't sure he remembers how he escaped.

He's thinking about it one second, thinking about making a build and escaping through a cracked window, and feeling the _sun_ on his face and feeling anything besides fear beating in his chest, and then – then he's outside.

The sun is warm on his skin. Though there's a small hum of anxiety buzzing through his veins, there's a stronger feeling of hope rushing through him.

Rex blinks, and realizes his feet are bloody.

Strangely, these things pass through him. He thinks he knows the name of what he's experiencing - thinks Holiday mentioned it to him once – but it doesn't magically appear from the vortex that is his brain.

And he doesn't push it. This vague, hazy state he's in is – it's not great. But it's not blind panic. That has to be good, right?

Still, despite his need to cling to this new mental stability – this wonderful _break_ from reality – Rex can feel a gentle force pushing him back, back.

 

He blinks. He is in the desert again. His feet are bleeding onto a dusty orange sand, and the dark liquid shows up brightly.

 

He's _bleeding_.

 

“Oh, ah, o-okay. Crap.” Rex says, the thought finally sinking in. “No, t-this is bad, this is really, really _bad_...”

Looking back, he can see a trail of bloody footprints leading to a small, ugly, burnt forest, and he can only assume they go back farther.

He is trackable.

And he's bleeding. And he doesn't know how that happened.

“Motorcycle, I need a motorcycle,” He starts muttering like a crazy person. “Or jet-pack – jet-pack would work great right about now.”

It takes a moment before his orange, levitating ride appears. But it does. That's what counts, right?

There's a heavy, straining sensation on his limbs that says this build will crumble soon.

 

“It's fine, that's fine. I just need to-to throw off the trail.”

 

He's talking to himself. He should really stop.

“Come on, Rex.”

He revs the engine and, after reaching up to pull his goggles down, and coming back empty handed ( _you didn't have your goggles on when they kidnapped you – you're still in your pajamas right now, you don't even have freaking sho–_ ) he takes off.

Rex would freak out. He wants to, but he knows that if he thinks about anything but kittens and rainbows and being _free_ and not _back in that place again,_ his build will collapse. He will start sobbing.

He will hyperventilate at his disassociation. (Is that the word?)

 

(that's the word isn't it)

 

He will scream at not remembering something yet again, even if it is but a moment.

Though he's too aware to slip back into that calm, fuzzy state from before, he does let his body do all the work of driving, and lets his mind stay pleasantly blank. Numb.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He sleeps in an abandoned barn.

 

He wouldn't stop, not for anything, because his fear of being followed isn't rational, and he _needs_ to be a few states away before he can properly relax – but his build shattered into pieces a mile back, and he's tired.

He can't keep going like this. He has to rest, just for a moment.

It'll save time in the long run.

The building is small, the roof partly caved in, and the door, once boarded up, is falling off its hinges.

 

He yelps when he sees rats scurry out. Except, you know. _Manly-like_.

 

“It could be worse.” He says to himself. But honestly, if he weren't bone-tired both physically, mentally, and emotionally, he wouldn't be doing this. It could be worse, but not much. He could be roughing it in the open space with naught but shrubs and cacti for cover.

It still takes a great effort – heeded by the setting sun, and faint, disturbing, animal noises in the distance – to step foot in the barn.

It's...bad. Grass has grown through any sort of floor the barn ever had, there's various rodent dropping everywhere, and with paranoia still deep in his bones, he would swear there are eyes in here, watching him.

He looks over his shoulder again, the fifth time that minute. The orange sunset gleams behind him, wavering with fading heat, but he sees nothing in the distance but shrubs and shadows.

It's safe. For...however long.

Curling up in the cleanest, most big-lite corner he can find, he licks his lips and wishes for water. He rubs at raw feet and wishes for shoes. He hugs his arms and wishes for his coat.

If there was more energy and water in him, Rex knows he would be crying right about now. He's not even ashamed to admit it to himself.

 

Today has been terrifying.

 

He doesn't think he'll be able to sleep with the event's running through his brain. Each scene keeps flashing, again and again, like some sick montage on repeat.

The room. _The room_.

He was alone.

He was panicking.

The memory.

The escape, the memory of which teases at the edge of his subconscious, like he does remember after all, but has tucked it away until his brain has enough emotional reserves to handle it.

 

He wishes he could just blink, and wake up in a different body, a different house.

 

If only he could be anyone else, any old person who doesn't have people hunting him, trying to kidnap him for a third time.

If only he could finally feel _safe_ again.

Closing his eyes, he imagines he's a normal teenager. Right now, he's not in some run-down shack filled with ants and termites and probably beetles, he's normal and safe and _home_.

It's a nice house, he pretends to himself, a usual one-story white-picket-fence thing like Noah's.

Inside are parents who love him, who've just eaten dinner with him (his stomach rumbles at the thought of _mashed potatoes_ and _meatloaf_ , which for some reason seem like the sort of foods normal people eat), and have already hugged him and bid him goodnight.

Tomorrow, he'll open his eyes in his normal-teenager room with one bed and a desk and a tv, with a videogame system hooked up like Noah has, and he'll put on thick jeans and a warm hoodie and go to school.

He won't worry about food or water, shelter or warmth, he'll only concern himself with acing a math test, or finishing up 'finals', or something.

He'll know his last name and who his family is, and most importantly, he'll be _safe_.

With that lovely fantasy running through his mind, Rex slips into an exhausted sleep, hands curled underneath his head.

 

And he dreams.

 

* * *

 

 

There's several faint sounds, a _thump, thump, thwok._ Two repetitions of something rubbery hitting wood or plaster, followed by a soft, clothes shifting noise.

 

Rex looks over to see someone bouncing a ball.

The ball itself is insignificant as it bounces from wall, to the floor, back to its owner's hand – it's old and plain red and Rex is pretty sure he even has one back at Providence – but the someone who holds it _matters_.

Both Rex and him are in a hallway with no end, exactly, just a stretch of room that just stops in fog not far away, and the only attraction Rex can see is that on the wall he's facing is a door.

The figure – boy, really – leans next to it, one foot balanced on the wall behind him as he casually throws and catches the small red ball.

The boy is lean. He wears an old jacket. His unruly hair seems contained only by a pair of goggles jammed on his head.

He glances up once at Rex and Rex sees that his eyes are dark, unhappy.

 

_Thump, thump, thwok._

 

“Who are you?” Rex asks. It seems like the thing to do, although his eyes really keep sliding back to the door, to the worn rusted metal knob. He wonders if it's locked.

The boy pauses momentarily in his mindless game, hand mid-air.

“Aren't you tired of asking that, yet?” He says back, cryptically.

This is a dream, so Rex rolls with it, though the words strike at something within him.

Even in his sleep, he's _tired_. He's tired of everything.

“Uh, so...do you know what's in there?” Rex nods his head at the closed, off-white door. It can't be locked, can it?

“Well _duh_.” The boy says back. “Of course I do.”

Rex blinks.

 

_Thump, thump, thwok._

 

“Are...you going to tell me?”

“Look, dude, you either open the door or you don't.” The boy snaps. “You don't get to cheat and find out any other way.”

Rex finds himself squinting, trying to bring this figure into view even though they can't be more than five paces away from each other.

“Sorry, who are you?”

The boy groans.

“Oh God, now he's stuck on repeat.”

“Seriously, you sound really annoying – like I've heard you somewhere before.”

“You're so funny.” The boy deadpans. His face seems to be getting clearer, and Rex realizes the boy has on gloves, too.

The identity of this guy is on the tip of his tongue, so near to his horrible memory that it feels like his brain is cramping trying to reach for it, and then suddenly – a cruel, cold wind thunders down the hall, so strong and sweeping he stumbles against the wall.

“It's...It's so cold.” He rubs his arms like he can keep the heat from escaping. “It wasn't this cold a second ago.”

 

“Oh? They say deserts can get down to 30 degrees at night.”

 

“But we're indoors. In a hallway.” Rex points out.

“And you're an idiot.” The boy retorts.

 

_Thump, thump, thwok._

 

That's not an answer. Nothing in Rex's life seems to offer any real answers for him, these days, so why is he surprised that his dreams are the same way?

Another chilly wind blasts through him like his jacket may as well be tissue paper.

He hates this. He doesn't want to stand here and feel cold and insulted by a boy he can't name, and listen to his own questions go unaddressed.

As if a magnet is drawing his fingers in, Rex steps forwards, shivers, and wraps his hand around the doorknob.

It's cold beneath his grasp, but it warms quickly.

 

“I wouldn't do that if I were you.” The boy says, that every present, slightly maddening _thump, thump, thwok_ still echoing with clarity across the hallway.

 

“But..you told me to open it.” Rex feels so confused.

“No. I just said I wasn't gonna tell you what's in there. And I'm not. But you don't wanna open that door.”

Rex can't make himself let go of the knob.

“Why?”

The boy doesn't try and catch the ball as it bounces towards him again, like he'd done every single time before. He lets it die down and roll away.

 

“You tell me,” He says, eyes still so unhappy. “You're the one who closed that door in the first place.”

“No, I –”

 

Another cold front burns through the corridor. It's all Rex can do to hunch in on himself and shiver, forced back a step by the strong winds. He rubs his hands together and pretends like he can still feel them.

If this is a dream – which is a fact that is present in his mind but slippery, sliding out of reach so quickly like sand between his fingers – then why does this cold feel so _real_?

“It's freezing in here. Can't you turn up the heat or something?” Rex asks, a stream of air hissing between his teeth as he tries to control his blatant shivering.

The boy offers him a shrug.

“Feels fine in here to me.”

 

“Okay...” Rex frowns. “But _I'm_ still cold.”

 

“Since when have I ever cared what you think? Better question, since when have you cared about what _I_ think?”

That's anger there, raw and explosive like it's been building for too long. How can a stranger be harboring such strong emotions towards Rex?

 

“I don't – I don't understand –”

 

An epic sigh echoes around him, and the boy laughs to himself, shaking his head.

 

“Oh my _God_.” He says to himself. Then, to Rex, “Don't you ever get tired of being so _clueless_?”

 

Rex flinches back.

 

“I mean, it's all, _who am I,_ and _what's in there_ , and _why's that happening,_ and – my personal favorite – _why does my life suck so bad?_ Doesn't it ever get _boring_ , not knowing anything?”

“Hey. Stop it.”

Rex can't think of a better retort than that, so he settles for a glare.

Being so ignorant has been a burden, an emotional rollercoaster, a pain, and really, really, friggin _hard._

 

But he wouldn't call it 'boring'.

 

Absently, he rubs at his shivering arms.

“'Hey, stop it'.” The boy mocks in a high-pitched tone. “How about this – when you finally manage to keep a bit of anything in that dumb, airhead brain of yours, we can talk about being friends and me not hurting your little pansy feelings.”

Rex tries to glare even harder, which is challenging because none of this is real, not his eyes nor the kid.

“I'm just dreaming you. You are just a stupid figment of my _stupid_ imagination. Why aren't you nicer?” He snaps.

The boy shrugs.

“Well, you got the 'stupid' part right. And I dunno? Maybe _you_ aren't nice.” Oh, like that isn't the lamest comeback of all time. Rex doesn't even care about that one – almost chuckles at it, actually.

Then there's such a swift, chilling gale sweeping through the corridor that he feels like the cold has stolen his breath. His whole frame is vibrating now, moving just so he doesn't lose any more heat that the wind is persistently taking.

 

He can't help but feel that the boy is doing this, somehow.

 

“Or maybe,” The boy says suddenly, like he can hear Rex's thinking about him. “Maybe you're sick of your brain treating you so delicately. Like you're gonna break at any moment. Like you can't handle the truth.”

“The truth?” Rex wonders. His eye wanders back to the door, where suddenly, in black, block letters is the word _truth._

 

He swerves his gaze back to the boy but his hands haven't moved, they're by his side, so they didn't put the letters there.

“This door...this is the truth?” He wants to open it all the more now. He even steps back to its edge, his toes bumping the bottom part, creeping slightly underneath.

 

Like before, however, something stops him. This time it's him.

 

“What to you mean, _I_ closed this door?” He asks the boy.

The boy's whole face darkens.

“You _know_.” He growls. “You didn't want the truth. You locked it away. You know _exactly_ what I mean.”

 

“...is this about the amnesia thing? Because I didn't _mean_ to forget –”

 

“But you do. You _always_ do.” The boy laughs.

 

Rex wonders if the boy knows how much he sounds like he's crying when he laughs.

 

It'd be pitiful, if he weren't blaming Rex for everything wrong in his life.

 

“When everything is going great, you stay. You live. Then the second things start to hurt – start to feel _real_ – you bail. You tuck all of that pain that makes life hard away, behind the door,” The boy gestures, and suddenly Rex can hear a faint thumping on the other side of the door. Whatever it is, it sounds frantic.

It scares him.

“And you start over. You lose the truth. Again and again, you just – forget it.”

He also notes how the paint is chipping, the hinges are rusted, and there's a sprinkle of dried blood around waist height on the old, dingy wooden door.

 

Suddenly he presses himself against the other wall to get away and it feels like the door is leering closer to _him_ now.

 

“W-what's the truth?” He whispers. He isn't sure if he wants to know. Before, he'd been so eager, but now – now it feels like knowing might destroy him.

The boy huffs a sigh.

“Oh my gosh, you either open the door or you don't, Rex. This isn't that hard.”

“But...” Rex struggles to understand his abrupt anxiety at the sound emanating behind the door. “Will it – hurt?”

“Yes.” The boy says.

This doesn't inspire confidence in him. Neither does the fact that he can't feel his toes from the cold.

“Okay. B-but just for like a moment, right?”

“No.” The boy says. “It'll hurt. And it'll last. But if you do open the door, you'll finally know. You'll know why you forget. And you'll know _what_ you forgot.”

Rex swears he hears some creature screeching in agony behind there.

He shivers and he looks at the boy with familiar, sad eyes, and he says in a voice smaller than he'd like,

“I wanna wake up now.”

“It'll be cold. It'll hurt.” The boy warns. “And you won't understand Why. So are you gonna learn the truth or not?”

Rex shuts his eyes against another roar, and curls in against a roaring, searing wind.

 

He's so scared. He's so tired.

 

“I wanna wake up now.”

The dream world dissipates at his command, the fog that was blocking the ends of the corridor swooping in and encasing everything in blurry surrealism, including the awful door and the boy.

The last thing he hears is a mocking snort.

 

“I knew you wouldn't do it.”

 

And then Rex wakes up.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Rex jolts upright.

 

With a frown, he slowly reaches up, grips the shirt material near his heart, and listens to it jump around violently for a while.

He'd been dreaming. That's right, it was a dream.

He breathes in the cool desert air, fists grass in his other hand, and practices breathing until his heart rate calms.

 

It's cold. He notices immediately – that sort of thing is hard to miss when you're in the desert, at night, wearing the equivalent of pajamas.

 

“Damn it.” He mutters to himself, breath a puff of fog in the cool early morning. He's not sure exactly how he thought one run down, ruin of a barn would be enough protection against the frosty air.  
Then again, he hadn't really been thinking yesterday.

Taking in calming inhales, Rex begins to stand up and move around, trying to get warmth rushing back through his body.

It's hard to have optimism for the day in his position – awoken from a nightmare, on the run from someone who's name Rex can't stand to hear, totally devoid of food and water – but Rex is nothing if not stubborn.

He pictures getting to some diner with hot, delicious, syrupy waffles and orange juice and a comfy booth. He thinks about getting back to play basketball with Noah some more, or that video game with the aliens, or even just to lie on his bed and watch Noah do homework.

He closes his eyes and tries to remember how it felt the couple of times Holiday gave him a hug. He tries to remember Agent Six's unflagging, though often annoyed presence – how it was always there, always ready to support and protect Rex.

 

There's so much he still wants to do. Hell, at this point he'd settle for a decent breakfast. So he can't die here – he can't.

 

With a dry throat and a renewed sense of determination (if not traditional optimism), Rex exits his abandoned shack of a barn and looks out along the horizon to see where he should head now.

He hopes he has enough energy for his motorcycle build. He can't see the end of this desert-like terrain in any direction.

“So I guess where I came in...” He mutters to himself, coughing a little as his throat seizes up. He decides he probably shouldn't talk out loud right now.

You know. To preserve the water left in his body.

With the swift rising sun and his constant, if odd, movements, Rex is beginning to feel his limbs again.

 _Guess that's the way I should head now,_ he thinks to himself.

But of course that would be the moment things start to go wrong for him.

 

Suddenly, from behind him, he hears a loud growl.

 

Rex's whole body freezes in place, and he turns every so slowly.

It's a blue, mechanical wolf, he thinks in total disbelief. A blue wolf crouched in deadly wait near his barn.

That just isn't something you see everyday! And not only that, but it stands upright, like a person, and it's eyes look so intelligent that it scares him.

 

“What _are_ you –” Rex begins to ask, if very insensitively.

 

And that's when the Wulf _pounces_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know I say this every time, but you who still read this are awesome. 
> 
> I confess, writing-wise I have the attention span of a squirrel so it's super easy for me to get distracted and start working on another story, but it's super difficult for me to want to finish a fic.
> 
> So I'm trying guys, I promise. 
> 
>  
> 
> Only a few chapters to go.
> 
> Thank you for reading/commenting!


	13. Hurricane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings - some fighting, mean adults hurting a minor (so basically the usual for this story)

 

Rex realizes something very quickly.

 

He's good at fighting. He's really good.

Dancing out of reach of sharp blue claws, he rushes to put the barn (shed, really) between him and his opponent, careful to keep the flash of blue in his eyeline.

They circle around each other, silently, until the Wulf finally lets out a frustrated growl.

Rex summons his nanite boots and jumps on the roof and over, landing directly on the Wulf's angry face.

He ducks his head as he falls, away from the Wulf's flailing, deadly claws swiping at him, and dodges losing his neck but accidentally leaves his outer arm open to scratches.

A patch of red, dripping parallel lines blooms near his shoulder.

 

"Damn." He curses, shrinking his feet back down to normal, even as he's hunching his shoulder against the pain and charging forwards, fist rising as he builds exactly one giant fist that's swerving towards the Wolf's unprotected stomach.

It's easy to land his mega-ton punch. It's less easy to resist smirking when the Wulf goes flying.

"I am awesome at fighting!" He crows, so proud of himself.

 

Is it wrong that this just makes sense? That this is the most confident he's felt since he's woken up?

It just clicks. It's just – his jam.

 

Though his bare feet ache from whatever happened yesterday, even resting on the empty barren red dirt, and his broken limb is a mess of pain from being moved and jerked around, and he has a headache that he thinks means he really needs some water – he's good.

He's in his _element_. It makes the pain worth it, when he feels like he _finally_ knows what he's doing.

 

Then the Wulf gets back up, anger reflecting like the edge of a sword in narrowed eyes, and he takes a running swipe at Rex's throat.

 

He builds a giant fist to block, to create some distance between them. Blue Wulf leaps out of reach of being smashed.

They trade more blows, dodging the worst, and neither make much progress in getting close to the other.

It feels like the most messed-up of all dances, or maybe dancing on the edge of a cliff – it's a twisted sort of fun, and it's always one step away from a nasty death.

“Is that all you've got?” He finds himself taunting, this time a crazy awesome orange blade in his hands. He hadn't even known he could build that, though it doesn't feel wrong or even surprising, really.

Blue Wulf growls again.

“I have so much more.” He hisses, which does not bode well for Rex.

He builds his jetpack and leaps into the air to avoid a nasty slice of claw that could've split him from his legs for forever.

“What's your problem with me, anyway?” He yells down while in the air. Though high enough so that Blue dude can't cut at him, with no weapons, Rex is in the same position.

Unlike his opponent, however, Rex can take a breather. He doesn't mind.

 

Actually, if he thought he could fly fast and long enough, he could just leave the fight now.

 

Honestly, he's not loving his chances there, though. He wouldn't get too far before he spent the remainder of his energy and then he'd have to fight the Wulf again anyway.

Better to end it here, while he still could.

Suddenly, like his face is being split apart, a sliver of a smirk appears on Wulf's disgusting face.

“I'm here,” He says slowly, “To take you back to Van Kleiss. He's very upset with you, Rex.”

Rex's first thought is...nothing. He can't hear over the cacophony his heart is making inside him.

 

Then he thinks, _well duh. Who else was this guy gonna be?_

 

Then, _No. No, I'm not going back._

 

Then, _he's...upset with me?_

 

Before Rex can curve the horrible, swooping plunge his emotions have taken, he feels his wings crumble and break off.

He's falling. He's _falling again_.

“No, no, no, no,” He's muttering to himself, unable to stop how his whole body shakes and trembles. “I'm _not going back!”_

He manages to build his sword again and swings it wildly, no control left in him, as he descends upon a waiting Wulf.

With frustrating ease, his blows, his incoming feet, are blocked. Wulf might not even be trying.

Rex is trying. He swings his sword until his shoulders ache and there's a roaring in his ears. He's crying, or sweating profusely, because there's water in his face, in his eyes and it's making it near impossible to see.

 

Abruptly, he missteps. The ground dips there, and his foot hadn't known, and he's stumbling slightly, barely bringing his blade up in time to save his head.

 

That particularly vicious strike severs (instead of his head) one half of the sword from the other, like it's made of Kleenex. As if in solidarity, the rest of his sword trembles violently and falls apart too.

 

And now Rex is just standing there. He's alone, his confidence is in shatters from a freaking _name_ , and he's terrified.

He glances up, using his good arm to scrub away the tears and sweat from his eyes. He sees the Wulf, standing before him with claws wet with blood by his sides.

 

The Wulf strides towards him slowly, not with fear, but certainty that this can only end one way.

 

And Rex still _tries_. He builds giant fists again and again, watching them crumble within seconds of each other, and he scrabbles backwards to keep at least some distance between the two of them.

 

His leg stings suddenly, like someone has rushed by with a bundle of thorns and accidentally caught his shins, his ankles. The swipe of claw knocks him flat on his back.

 

It's...it's terrible.

 

He crawls, his hands beneath him, and he scrambles, and he feels like a _dog_ lying here hurting in the dirt.

 

“Please, p-please don't,” He hears himself say. “W-what does he need me for? J-just...l-look at me! I'm _broken_.”

 

There's a pause. It's so heavy Rex finds his breaths coming in uncomfortable, insufficient gasps.

 

He hadn't known he'd thought that.

 

...Had he?

 

 

The Blue Wulf gazes down at him with no pity nor understanding in his cold yellow eyes, just a sense of curiosity towards this panicking prey, and he slowly reaches down and pulls Rex up by the front of his shirt.

 

His terror level rises even further – his feet can't touch the ground.

 

“I'd leave you here to die, if it were up to me.” The Blue Wulf sounds so damn _casual_ as he says his death threat. “You look so pitiful. So _worthless_. I can't fathom what possible use he could have for you.”

 

Rex feels like he's choking on his fear, even with no claw wrapped tight around his throat.

 

Still, though. Maybe he has a chance. Maybe he's getting through to this Wulf. It would be better to die here than to go back to _his_ clutches, Rex thinks.

 

Such a horrible thought, such a wrong alternative - and yet Rex can't go back. He _can't_.

 

“S-so why don't you leave me here? Y-you could – you could tell him I died. O-or you couldn't find me. I'm sure I won't last much longer out here anyway. S-so it'd even be the truth.” As if to help sell his point, Rex's voice gets even raspier.

 

Wulf narrows his already small eyes at him.

 

“I could do this.” He hisses.

 

Rex can't help but hope at that. A slow death by dehydration, filled with hallucinations, vomiting, probably collapsing to bake in the sun - it isn't something he'd ever thought he'd wish for. He doesn't, not really. To say he's 'hopeful' for it, well, he just means he's relieved his relatively short future won't include _him_ , is all.

 

But then Wulf smiles at him.

 

“However I, unlike other EVOs, am _loyal._ I will do as my master commands. No matter how I may question idiotic orders like this one.”

 

Rex's hope - faint wish if anything - crashes. He struggles to form anything – motorcycle, jetpack, sword, that cool gun thingy, fists or boots – but he's too worn out. He manages to land a few normal, wimpy human punches on the guy.

 

They do absolutely nothing.

 

“No! No, I won't let you – you can't! I'm not going back!!”

 

But he is. He's going back to Van Kleiss and there's nothing he can do to stop it.

 

 

* * *

 

Rex is unconscious for most of the journey.

 

He's so dry. When he tries to swallow, nothing happens. There's just no more saliva left in his mouth.

So in his panic and dehydration, and after vague moments of clarity where he tries to hurt the Wulf enough to drop him (they are vain, needless to say), he finds the world falling away from his grip.

It shouldn't really be possible. He's slung over the Wulf's hard, uncomfortably-metal-like shoulder, his arms dangling uselessly against the Wulf's back, and thinks he looks like some sort of deer that's been hunted and killed. Which, in hindsight, is sort of exactly what he is.

The point is that Rex, despite his best intentions and his heightened state of panic, drifts.

He has no energy left to see the route the Wulf takes. He can barely lift his limbs to pound on the Wulf's back. He jerks his head up too many times trying to turn around, see where Wulf is walking, and spots swim in his vision.

That's one of the many instances where he loses time.

 

Eventually, he's aware of a coolness underneath him. Liquid drips into his mouth.

 

He drinks eagerly. More water is held to his mouth in a cup and he gulps, his throat dusty and barren of all moisture.

It's good. It's so so good.

 

There are many metaphors that singers seem to like involving being in the desert, especially without rain or water, but none of them really capture the urgency of it. None of them can comprehend the beauty and balm that is the gift of water, after being deprived of it for so long.

Rex drinks and drinks, until he thinks he might throw up. The cup is taken away after that.

Licking his lips, Rex finally takes in his surroundings.

It's a room that's creepily like the one he'd just escaped from (minus the debris on the floor and a window), with dark concrete walls and a cold stone floor. He's on some sort of rough wooden bench, his back propped up against one of the walls.

 

The person that must've been gently giving him water kneels beside the bench.

 

Rex screams.

 

He can't help it.

 

She - she has _four arms_. Two unnaturally large arms dangle by her sides, while a normal sized pair rest in her lap, a cup cradled in her small hands.

He stares for too long, breath quick in his throat, before he can notice anything else.

It's creepy, how aside from the _four arm thing_ , that she looks like a normal girl. She wears a skirt and button-down shirt, like she's from a prep school or something, and her hair is greasy and a veil over her face, but is still cut evenly beneath her chin. 

She has a despondent slump to her shoulders - the only hint that perhaps her _extra pair of arms_ might weigh her down.

Empty eyes peek out at him from behind her - not really bangs. Are they still called bangs if they're the same length as the rest of her hair and fall completely in her face?

 

Rex swallows, mouth still ginger from before, and presses himself against the wall.

 

"W-who...." He has to cough to get his voice to work right. "Who are you?"

Even with all that water, he sounds hoarse and parched.

"You call me Breach." The girl (woman?) says, breathily. "And you, I call Rex."

He swings his feet over and shuffles on the bench till his feet find the floor.

"O..okay. And -" He clears his throat again. "And what am I doing here?"

Breach's tiny hands tighten to whiteness on the cup in her hands.

"We're waiting." She says.

Dear Lord, she sounds like a crazy person. It's like walking past someone on the street you think must be talking on a bluetooth, only to discover that there's absolutely nothing in their ears or hands at all.

 

It takes a try or two, but Rex manages to get to his feet, back still sliding against the wall. He makes sure to move as slowly as he can force himself to, in case this girl is like a dog. Sometimes, if cats or rabbits or whatever stay completely still, dogs either don't care or don't notice them. But if they run - if they move too much - then the dog has to chase after them, it simply can't help it.

 Rex doesn't want to give crazy-girl an excuse to go crazier on him.

"So, you're being really cryptic and vague. Um, can you tell me what we're waiting for?"

"You'll know when it happens."

He shuffles and moves farther away from Breach, hands loose and ready in front of him.

 

"Great. Well, I don't have all day, so if maybe you could show me the door -"

 

"Oh, time isn't real." She assures him. "It's a subjective perception created by humanity to make sense of the world. Since the future is only your expectations, you're never going to get there anyway."

A feeling like burs all over his arms trickles across his skin, leaving him weirded out and scared.

"You're completely loony-tunes, aren't you?" He says before he can stop himself.

Suddenly it feels necessary that he leave the room _right friggin' now_ , or at least run to find someone moderately more sane than Breach.

He spots a door on the far side of the room and sprints towards it.

He makes it five - six, maybe? - whole steps before a torrent of violent, dark red swamps his vision and he lands back on the bench he'd just vacated, Breach directly in front of him yet again.

For a long moment, he can't understand it.

 

He'd just - he'd been -

 

Wait. What?

Did he...disassociate again?

 

Blinking, he looks back to Breach, like insanity girl might have answers.

Her gaze is harder than it was a moment ago.

"We're _waiting_."

Forget that.

"You wait. I'm outta here."

Rex gets up and rushes at the door again. He makes it a few steps farther this time, his outstretched hand almost close enough to brush the cold exit to freedom, and then - he's back where he started.

The swirling red surrounds him, and he's on the bench yet again.

 

He wonders about time loops for a wild couple of minutes.

Finally, he thinks he remembers seeing a flash of movement from Breach as he charged at the door, and his frazzled mind tries pathetically to push things together.

"A-are you doing that?" He asks her, bewildered.

"This place isn't real anyway. Why do you keep trying to leave?" She replies, which, you know, _is not helpful_.

 

The vague memory of _getting_ here pops to the forefront of Rex's mind. His legs still hurt from the scratches, but they've been bandaged, as well as his arm. That's proof, he thinks wildly, that's proof that the fight _happened_ and that the Wulf thing had beaten him and _he'd said they were going back to_ him -

Rex wants to vomit up all the water he's just taken in.

 

"Wait, what happened to - to the Wulf guy?"

 _Please say you killed him and rescued me. I'd take a creepy rescuer over that blue monster any day._ Rex thinks, crossing his fingers by his sides.

As always these days, though, Rex is let down.

 

"He brought you to us." Breach says.

 

" _Us_?"

 

Suddenly her eyes widen, and her posture stiffens to a rigid, upright position. It looks like a solider straightening up before his commander walks in the room.

 

"We don't have to wait anymore." Her voice is soft. He thinks he even hears it tremble. She has the faintest shake to her limbs as she gets up off the floor, cup still in her grasp, and walks to the door.

 

She pauses, a giant, freakish hand on the doorknob.

"Remember, none of this is real. It can't hurt you if it's not real."

Rex feels his stomach roll, even with nothing in it. There's a dizzy nausea consuming his insides. What's going to happen next?

Whatever it is, he must be in serious trouble then, because -

 

"But Breach, this _is_ real."

 

There's actual fear in her eyes that he can see in between the cascade of hair. She doesn't look at him as she leaves, muttering to herself,

"...not real, can't hurt, not real..."

Rex half-heartedly runs to follow her through the only available exit, and isn't too surprised to find himself sucked back through one of her red things - portals, is it? - and back on the bench.

He's disappointed, yeah. But not terribly shocked.

 

For a whole minute, he denies what he knows is going to happen. It works fairly well.

 

Breach is a crazy girl who somehow beat up the Wulf, kidnapped him from his _previous_ kidnappers, and is now keeping him alone in her basement as a horrible real-life homage to so many crappy horror movies.

Yes. That is what Rex tells himself is going on.

Still, the truth is bubbling incessantly beneath the surface, making it difficult for Rex to breathe, or move, or do more than keel over and put his arms over his head.

 

It's not going to happen, _he_ isn't here, or maybe Rex isn't here, honestly Rex is good with either one -

 

There's a loud sound as the door shifts, and opens.

 

“Rex. You left so quickly yesterday! We didn't even get a chance to catch up!”

 

That voice. It haunts his nightmares; it leaves him shaking and petrified on the cold floor; it torments him relentlessly.

 

And it's here.

 

“Van Kleiss.” Rex whispers.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Still no pairings with Rex. So no Rex/Breach. No judgement if that's your ship just...it's not happening here. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!! I'll try not to make you wait so long for the next chapter, since it's almost finished already :D
> 
> See you next time ^^


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